The Blood of Freedom
by Sabraia
Summary: America is alerted to some strange, possibly magical activity going on in his country. He calls on the best nation he knows for help, and both America and England will be set on a journey they will learn to wish had never happened. / No pairings, rated T for language, violence, and character death.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note and Disclaimer: I got the idea for this story while still in the middle of my first story I was writing for this site, but I held off on this one because I didn't want to tackle multiple projects at once, especially considering I'd have to juggle that with real-life responsibilities like college. However, with 'Deadly Secret' out of the way, I can focus on my second story to publish!**

**A few things to keep in mind: this story is not in the same continuity as my other one. Secondly, updates may be a week or more apart because the fall semester is about to start, and I not only have classes to take, but I've been recommended to be a tutor, and will be employed by the college (in other words, I finally have a job!)**

**Thirdly, this one's gonna be dark. You have been warned.**

**Lastly, I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers or any of the characters. Enjoy.**

* * *

Roughly setting the huge stack of paperwork on the desk, America stood up and stretched. It had taken him several hours to go through everything, but he was finally caught up on things. When he finished stretching, America left the little office that he'd been confined in for the past several hours, stepping into one of the many halls of the White House.

On his way out, the vice president just happened to be passing by. He came to a halt, greeting his country as he did so.

"All finished with the paperwork, Mr. Jones?" he said.

"Yeah," America replied. He jerked his thumb at the door. "It's still on my desk; when do I need to take it over to my boss?"

The vice president waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, don't worry about it," he said. "Some secretary will fetch it later."

America nodded, and the two men began walking down the hall together.

"Anything interesting happen while I was stuck in there?" America asked.

The vice president thought for a minute. "Not really," he replied. "Germany called earlier this morning, apparently to remind you of the summit coming up in a couple of weeks. Congress might be passing some new legislation, but that's really the president's issue…"

America said nothing. The vice president furrowed his brow, trying to think if there was anything else worth mentioning.

"I think the FBI's investigating something down south, in… Camden, South Carolina, I believe," he said.

"What for?" America asked. "What's going on in Camden?"

The vice president shrugged. "I didn't bother to look into the details," he said. "I doubt it's anything of significance."

"Yeah."

They dropped the subject and switched to more mundane conversation as they continued their walk. Eventually, the vice president reached his destination in a different room of the White House and left America to keep going. America left the White House, heading for his car.

He was done with his country's administrative business for the day and had no intention of staying in Washington any longer than necessary. Once he was in his car, he revved the engine and sped away from the White House. On his way out of DC, America considered where he wanted to go to spend the rest of the day. His apartment in New York was too far of a drive; America decided to head south instead.

Just a few hours later, America pulled up to the gates of an old, colonial style mansion in the Virginia countryside. He lowered his window so he could enter the code into the keypad installed on a stand just outside the gates of the mansion. The gates opened, and America drove onto the premises. He parked the car inside a garage that looked noticeably modern in comparison to the rest of the building, then got out and walked around to the mansion's entrance.

He dug inside his pockets and withdrew a keychain that had the key, and he let himself inside. The interior of the mansion was much like the garage in its decidedly modern appearance, in stark contrast to the style of the mansion's exterior. There was a laptop computer on the table in the foyer, next to an assortment of headphones, a couple of iPods, and an empty coffee cup. America picked up the coffee cup and headed for the kitchen.

America spent a few minutes making himself a cup of coffee, then returned to the computer in the foyer. After pushing the power button, America waited for the computer to start up by clearing the desk of all the other items. Making a quick run to one of the smaller rooms in the back, America dropped the items onto a shelf in that room, then returned to the foyer. By this time, the computer had finished booting up, and was waiting for America to enter the password.

Once he typed in the password, and was taken to the main screen, America immediately opened his internet browser and checked the news. He browsed through the stories with partial interest, then checked his e-mail. There was almost nothing of interest there, either. America downed the rest of his coffee, closed the laptop, and headed for the bedroom.

His walk to the bedroom was interrupted when his phone went off. Startled, America quickly reached into his pants pocket, retrieving the phone and answering it.

"Hello?" he said.

"Mr. Jones," was the reply.

America froze. That was the voice of the director of the FBI; what was going on here?

"Yeah?" America said.

"We need you to come down to Camden," the director continued.

_Camden? _America thought. _Didn't the vice president mention something about it earlier today? I guess it's more serious than I thought, if the FBI's getting worked up._

"What do you need me in Camden for?" America asked.

"Several FBI agents have been investigating unusual activity in the area," the director said. "However, no one's been able to get any answers. This is looking like a potentially large problem, and could affect national security, which is why we think the country himself needs to take a look at it."

_In other words, you don't have a clue, so let's see if the country does,_ America thought. "All right, I'll be down there as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones."

America hung up and put the phone away. Figuring that this investigation would take a few days at the very least, America then went to one of the storage rooms and pulled out a small suitcase. He carried it to the bedroom, where he went through the closet, grabbed a few changes of clothes, and threw them into the suitcase. Once he had everything, he grabbed the car keys and went to the garage. Within minutes, he was back on the road, headed for South Carolina.

**(-)**

America met up with the agents he was supposed to be working with inside a café in Camden. A follow-up phone call from one of the agents; just minutes after the call from the director, gave America instructions on where to go and who to meet. The meeting went smoothly, and now America was following two FBI agents into a back alley where the strange activity was supposedly taking place.

The three of them stood in uncomfortable silence for quite a while, apparently waiting on something to happen. America quickly grew bored.

"I don't see what everyone's so worked up about," he said.

"Quiet," one of the agents said tersely.

America looked at the agent, arching en eyebrow, but nevertheless, he did as he was told. As boring and annoying as it was, he would humor them. They continued to wait.

A breeze blew in out of nowhere, sending some discarded papers that had been on the ground into the air. That wasn't all; although no one else was nearby, the three of them could suddenly hear muffled shouting and gunfire. It wasn't the sound of just one gun, or even a handful of guns; this sounded like a large battle. America looked all around, trying to identify the source of the sound, but saw nothing except the walls of the buildings around him.

"Is that…?"

"The strange activity," the agent said. "We've tried everything we can think of, and we can't identify what's causing the sounds, or how to make it stop. It eventually stops on its own, but it always starts up again later."

"It's happened often enough that we managed to get a full recording of it," the second agent added. "We even recorded it multiple times; all the recordings match. It's like a supernatural broken record of… something. What do you make of it?"

America frowned, trying to think. Supernatural things were hardly his area of expertise; although he did know of one nation who was well versed in this sort of thing.

"Wait a minute," America said. "The FBI director told me this was potentially a national security issue. Why is a repeated supernatural 'recording' such a huge problem?"

The first agent gestured for America to follow him. Puzzled, but curious, America followed him back to their car, which was parked on the street nearby. The agent unlocked the car and retrieved a small box. He unlocked and opened it, showing it to America.

America looked at the contents and was thoroughly nonplussed. It was just a bunch of separate vials, each one containing exactly one metal, ball-shaped object. A bullet, possibly.

"What are these?" America asked, picking up one of the vials.

"From what we can see from testing, it appears to be an 18th century musket ball," the agent replied.

"Mmmkay," America said, returning the vial. "Why are they in separate vials?"

"Because, when we picked up the second one and tried storing it with the first, they violently exploded on contact," the agent said. "We have no idea why."

America gave the agent a quizzical look. The agent shrugged, looking just as confused as America.

"Exactly one musket ball appears on the ground in that alley every time the recording occurs," the agent continued. "We've collected over a dozen now. Any minute now, Mr. Jameson is going to come over here with the next one."

As if on cue, the second agent walked over carrying something in one hand. When he got to the car and showed it to America; sure enough, it was another musket ball.

"Okay, but I still don't get how this is a national security issue," America said. "What is the threat?"

"Remember when you got here, and saw that we'd gotten the police to block this area off?" Jameson said. "Well, that barricade was just put up this morning, after someone disappeared after walking into that alley."

"What?" America said. "The director failed to mention that!"

It got quiet for half a second, but America was suddenly struck with another disturbing thought.

"How come we didn't disappear then?" America asked. "If the disappearance has anything to do with these musket balls, and those repeating sounds…"

Neither agent had the chance to attempt to answer America's question, for America was interrupted by the sounds of someone screaming in pain. It was coming from the alley.

"The sounds stopped over a minute ago, and that was never part of it," Jameson noted, with a tinge of dread in his voice. "Talley…"

The first agent nodded, and all three men sprinted back towards the alley. They came to an abrupt halt when they saw what was causing the screaming. A middle-aged man lay on the ground, bleeding profusely from his chest. He looked at America, Talley, and Jameson.

"Help me!" he screamed.

America wasted no time in getting his phone out and dialing 911. He told the operator he needed an ambulance; a man had been shot in an alley, and was bleeding from a chest wound. Not ten minutes later, and an ambulance arrived, and the paramedics took the man away on a stretcher. Police arrived as well, but after a brief conversation with the two FBI agents, they left shortly after the ambulance did.

When the ambulance was gone, America looked gravely at the two agents.

"Was that the person who disappeared this morning?" he asked.

Talley said nothing, but gave a slow nod.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I'm still on those last couple of weeks of break before the fall semester starts, so I actually had enough free time to put the next chapter together a little earlier than anticipated. Unfortunately, this sort of thing won't happen often.**

**Hetalia is not mine. Hence the term 'FAN'fiction.**

* * *

When things had quieted down, America, and agents Talley and Jameson resumed their investigation of the alley. They had made doubly sure that absolutely no one other than the three of them had access to the area, with plenty of yellow 'Police Line: Do Not Cross' tape, and police standing by in case anyone chose to disregard the warning.

America went back and stood on the exact spot where the injured man had been lying.

"Are you guys able to predict when the sounds start?" America asked.

"Not reliably," Talley replied. "They usually come several times a day, but not always at the same time. All we do know is that within five minutes of the sounds starting, a musket ball appears on the ground. Every single time."

America started to walk around, at first staying close to his original spot, but eventually walking all over the whole floor of the alley.

"It's gone," he said. "So, what do we do, sit here twiddling our thumbs until it starts up again?"

"No," Jameson said. "We still need to figure what this is, and, hopefully, how to make it stop."

_Well, I have no idea what it is, or what to do about it…_ America thought. _I think I'm going to have to give England a call._

America excused himself and left the alley. Leaning casually against the FBI vehicle, he pulled out his phone and entered in England's number. To his surprise, England responded immediately.

"America? What is it?" England asked.

"Um, well, there's something weird going on in South Carolina, and I'm gonna need your help," America said.

"'Something weird'?" England repeated, clearly confused. "Please elaborate. What is happening over there?"

America sighed, trying to think of how best to sum it up. He decided to go ahead and tell England everything, starting with the strange sounds, and the mystery bullets that were appearing, and ending with the man who disappeared, then reappeared with a gunshot wound in the chest.

"Any idea what it might be?" America asked hopefully.

England was silent for a long time as he mentally ran through the possibilities.

"The sounds repeat regularly?" England said at last. "And it sounds exactly the same way every time?"

"Yes," America replied. "Why?"

"I can't say for certain, but it sounds like some kind of glitch in space-time," England began.

America laughed. "Seriously?" he said. "That sounds like something you'd hear on Star Trek, or Doctor Who, or something."

"I wasn't joking," England said tersely. "I can't really think of anything else it could be, either."

"Okay," America said, still trying to suppress a few last chuckles. "What do we do about it, then? I don't exactly have a sonic screwdriver to fix it with."

"We don't need a bloody sonic screwdriver!" England snapped. "However, I can try to fix it with my magic. I'll be over there as soon as I can."

"Sure thing," America said.

"However, I'm also going to contact Norway and Romania and see what they think," England added. "They know magic as well; they may be able to help."

"Right."

The two nations hung up on each other. America put his phone away, looking up just in time to see Talley and Jameson leaving the alley. The three men gathered around the car to discuss what to do next.

"I just called in a friend of mine; he's got expertise in what we're dealing with," America said. "He'll most likely be here within a day or two."

Talley nodded. He unlocked the car, and he and Jameson climbed inside; Talley on the driver side, Jameson on the passenger side. While the two agents sat in the car and fiddled with their equipment, America left the car. On a whim, he went back into the alley.

He wandered around aimlessly, not quite sure what he was looking for. It was unnervingly still and quiet in the alley; the only sounds America could hear were the distant sounds of traffic outside, and his own footsteps. Eventually, America gave up and took a seat on the ground, staring ahead at nothing in particular.

**(-)**

When he hung up, England set his phone down on the desk and spent the next few minutes staring contemplatively at the wall.

_ It should be easy enough to fix with magic,_ England thought. _Do Norway and Romania really need to get involved?_

He reached for the phone again anyway; he'd told America he would contact them, so contact them he would. England entered Norway's number first.

Norway never answered the phone. Instead, after several rings, England heard a recorded message telling him that Lukas Bondevik was indisposed; please leave a message, he'll reply as soon as he can. Heaving a frustrated sigh, England went ahead and left a message requesting Norway's assistance in an investigation of a magical disturbance in the United States.

After he finished leaving his message to Norway, England then tried to call Romania. Someone picked up, but it wasn't Romania, it was one of his higher ups. The official informed England that Romania was at a conference, and was not due to return for several days. England thanked the official, and that was the end of that conversation. Cursing under his breath, England put his phone away.

"Looks like neither one is available," England muttered. "Fine. I'll just have to do it myself."

England got up from his desk and headed downstairs and toward the basement, where all his spellbooks were kept. Only a few of these books would actually be needed, so England made sure to carefully select each one, rather than try to take all of them with him. He took books off the shelf one by one, skimming through the contents to check if this spellbook had anything he would find useful for his investigation. If he saw nothing useful, the book went right back on the shelf.

Eventually, England finished sorting through all of his spellbooks, and returned upstairs with just three books in hand, as well as a small wooden box containing various spell components. These items were packed in a suitcase along with everything else England would need for the trip. Leaving the suitcase on his bed, England returned to his study, booting up his computer so he could go online and book a flight to the US.

As luck would have it, England was able to book a flight scheduled to leave within the next few hours. He grabbed his wallet, car keys, and suitcase, then headed for the garage. The suitcase went in the trunk, then England got into the driver's seat, turned the key in the ignition, and backed out of his driveway. He shifted the car into drive and made his way down to the London Heathrow airport.

England spent the next couple of hours battling London traffic, going through airport security, and waiting in the terminal before he finally boarded his flight. During the wait for the airplane to arrive at the gate, England sent a text to America, telling him what time his flight was scheduled to arrive in New York. As the flight was boarding, England got a reply text, telling him the address in Camden where the strange activity was happening. England read the text, committed the address to memory, then turned his phone off and boarded the plane.

Once the flight was finally airborne, it would be another seven and a half hours before the plane landed. Fortunately, England had brought some of his favorite fantasy books to read during the flight. He pulled one out of his carry-on bag and began reading.

**(-)**

Meanwhile, in South Carolina, America was growing restless. There was nothing further he could do as far as investigating the alley was concerned, so he went back to his car, which was parked just behind the FBI car. As he sat in the driver's seat, keys still in his hand, America contemplated what to do next.

_I wonder how that man is doing,_ America thought. _Which hospital was he taken to? I should check on him; he may have information that could help in the investigation._

America got out of his car and walked over to the FBI car. He gestured for one of the agents to lower the window and talk to him. Jameson lowered the passenger side window.

"What is it, Mr. Jones?" he asked.

"Which hospital was that man we found taken to?" America asked. "When he recovers, I need to ask him a few questions about what he saw."

"Given the severity of that wound he had, I'd say he's at the nearest level one trauma center," Jameson said. "Give me a moment, and I'll find it for you."

Jameson began fiddling with a small laptop computer that had been sitting on the dashboard of the car. Within minutes, he found what he was looking for, picked up the computer, and held it so that America could see the screen clearly.

"There's the address," Jameson said. "There's also a phone number down here…" he scrolled down and pointed.

America took a quick glance at both the address and the phone number.

"Thanks," he said.

Jameson set the computer back on the dash. America headed back to his car, climbing back into the driver's seat. He briefly debated calling the hospital first, but ultimately decided he may as well drive over there. It wasn't terribly far.

As he turned the key in the ignition, America noticed Talley had gotten out of the FBI car and was headed his way. America lowered the driver's side window, and Talley came to a halt beside the driver's side door of America's car.

"Are you coming with me or something?" America asked.

"Might as well," Talley replied. "Jameson's going to stay here and analyze those recordings until we come back."

America shrugged and unlocked the passenger side door. Meanwhile, Talley walked around to the passenger side and let himself in. America shifted the car into drive and took off while Talley fastened his seat belt.

"Um, quick question though," America said as he drove.

"What is it?"

"The guy we're looking for," America said. "Do you happen to have his name?"

"According to the individual who reported him missing, his name is Jonathan Hayes," Talley replied.

"Okay," America said, nodding slightly. "We just go in and ask for Jonathan Hayes. Got it."

Not twenty minutes later, they arrived at the hospital they were looking for. They went inside, Talley leading the way. Although they probably wouldn't need them, both America and Talley had their government ID's at the ready when they entered the building.

They went in and asked if they could see Jonathan Hayes. The nurse they asked went to look up the name, and told them that it might take a minute. She came back two minutes later with a grim expression on her face.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," she said. "But Mr. Hayes was reported DOA when the ambulance brought him here about thirty minutes ago."

_Dead on arrival,_ America thought, a sickening feeling rising in his stomach. _Damn it…_

"We'll have the body autopsied," Talley whispered in America's ear. Turning to the nurse, Talley said, "Is he at the morgue then?"

"I believe so," the nurse said. She glanced back and forth between America and Talley, idly wondering why neither man looked particularly upset at their apparent friend's death. She supposed they were probably just trying to hide their grief in front of others. A lot of friends and family of patients would do that.

Giving the nurse a brief 'thank you' for her time, Talley then promptly turned around and left. A nonplussed and frustrated America followed him. Not a word was exchanged between the two until they got back in America's car.

"Now what?" America asked.

"I told you; we retrieve the body and have it autopsied," Talley replied.

"How will that help? We already know what killed him; that gunshot wound in the chest he must have gotten after disappearing in that alley!"

"It's better than trying to go on nothing," Talley countered. "Besides, the autopsy may reveal more than just simply how he died."

America blinked. "What do you mean?"

"It's obvious that he got teleported somewhere while in that alley," Talley said. "Perhaps he brought something back that can give us clues."

America leaned back in the seat and heaved a frustrated sigh. It got uncomfortably quiet inside the car for a few minutes, but eventually America gave up, leaned forward again and turned the key in the ignition.

"Where is the morgue?" he asked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: This chapter was fun, but proved to be more difficult to write than I thought it would. **

**Oh, and apparently I forgot to list England in the character tags. I thought I had; he's kind of an important character *fail***

**Author does not own Hetalia. Enjoy.**

* * *

England's flight had left rather late in the evening, and so when he finally landed, it was very early the following morning in New York. Rather than attempt to make the lengthy drive between New York and Camden immediately, England got himself a room so he could catch up on sleep. His journey would resume later that morning, when he woke up.

At ten o'clock that morning, England got up, ate a quick breakfast and checked himself out of the hotel. He got in his rental car and immediately set out on the drive to South Carolina.

Just a few hours into the drive, England realized he should have taken another flight, rather than drive the rest of the way. He had forgotten just how far away South Carolina was from New York, and at the current rate he was going, would not reach Camden until almost midnight. America was just going to have wait another day, apparently.

After several stops for food and refueling the car, England's trip ended up taking him even longer. He parked the car on the curb next to the address he'd been told to go to – which turned out to be a nondescript café of all things – and got out of the car. Glancing at his watch, England noticed it was just after midnight. Knowing better than to expect America to meet him at this hour, England merely went into the café to use the restroom before going right back to his car. He drove around until he found a hotel to stay at for the rest of the night.

At seven o'clock that morning, England left the hotel and returned to the café. This time, he went inside and actually ordered some breakfast. A few minutes later, with his breakfast in hand, England took a seat at one of the tables, eating and waiting for America to arrive.

The wait ended up being longer than anticipated. After finishing his breakfast, England pulled out his book again and began reading as he waited, occasionally checking his watch for the time.

America finally showed up just before nine o'clock. Annoyed, but relieved that America did finally show up, England put his book away and got up from his chair to greet the other nation.

"What took you so long?" England asked.

"Late start," America said with a shrug. "I had to leave some instructions for the guys that were already on the investigation before I got called in…"

"What kind of instructions?"

America turned and gestured to the door. "I'll tell you outside," he said. He made his way toward the door without waiting for a response from England, leaving a confused and annoyed Englishman no choice but to follow.

Once they were outside, America did not stop, but instead quickened his pace as he led England to the alley. He came to an abrupt halt right in front of it. England stopped as well, staring in bewilderment at America.

"What is going on?" England demanded.

"The other day, someone disappeared after going in there," America replied, pointing at the alley. "He came back with a gunshot wound in his chest. I called an ambulance, but he died by the time the ambulance got to the hospital. The two FBI agents that had me called out here currently have the body, and have taken it to be autopsied."

"Dear Lord," England muttered. "I thought we were investigating a small space-time glitch, I had no idea someone had died because of it. This complicates things…"

He reached into his satchel and retrieved the few spellbooks he'd brought from home. Taking a seat on the sidewalk and leaning back against the side of the building, England began thumbing through the pages, looking for spells that might help fix the problem.

"When will those two men from the FBI be back?" England asked, not looking up from his books.

"Dunno," America said. "Could be as early as this afternoon, but I wouldn't count on it."

England nodded.

The two were silent for several minutes. England was engrossed in his books, and America was starting to feel awkward just standing still on the sidewalk, so he began to slowly pace back and forth. On a whim, he figured he may as well poke around in the alley for a bit. Maybe there was something new that could provide clues as to what the problem was, and how to fix it.

As he stepped into the alley, America listened carefully for the battle sounds, but heard nothing except the people and traffic outside. He walked around, keeping a close eye on the ground to see if anything new had appeared. Again, there was nothing. America let out a small sigh and left the alley, standing next to England as he leaned against the wall.

England abruptly stood up, holding one of his spellbooks open to the page he was looking for. America leaned over to look at the spell, but most of the page was comprised of a diagram covered in runes that he couldn't read.

"What does that spell do?" America asked.

"In theory, it will show us exactly what it is we're dealing with," England replied. "The problem will be much easier to fix if we know what it is first."

"Uh-huh."

America just nodded, only pretending to understand what England meant by that. _I thought we already knew what it was; we need to make it stop,_ he thought.

England dug into his pockets and produced a piece of chalk. He went into the alley, set the spellbook down, and began drawing the diagram shown on the page. This ended up taking almost twenty minutes, but eventually, England stood back up to examine his work. He put the chalk away and took up the spellbook again, then stood in the center of the diagram.

"Do I need to do anything?" America asked, leaving his spot against the wall in case the answer was yes.

"You should probably just stay there," England said.

America rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall. England turned around, lowered his gaze to the ground, and began to chant the spell's incantation.

Midway through the chant, the muffled battle sounds started. America stopped leaning against the wall and stood up straight, listening carefully to the sounds. It definitely sounded very similar to the sounds he'd heard the other day.

However, as England's chant went on, the sounds became louder, almost as if their source was somehow coming closer. America looked around nervously. At first, he saw nothing, but seconds later, he noticed that there was smoke gathering in front of England's incantation circle. America heard the sound of something metallic hitting the ground, and saw a small, round, metal object roll into the incantation circle. He debated going forward and grabbing it, but thought better of it.

England finished his chant and stepped backwards, outside of his circle. He looked up at the smoke, eyes going wide as if he'd only just noticed it.

"What…?"

America stepped forward. "Is it supposed to do that?" he asked.

"Not that I'm aware of…" England said.

There was a sound of gunfire that sounded like it was coming from within the smoke itself. Both America and England flinched when they saw and heard something fly out of the smoke and ricochet off the wall. America recovered first, and went over to grab whatever it was. It was a musket ball. Meanwhile, England found the one that had rolled into his incantation circle.

They spent several seconds staring incredulously at their findings. England slowly pocketed the musket ball he found and went to staring at the smoke instead. More gunfire was heard, but no bullets came flying out of the smoke this time.

Instead, something much bigger emerged.

Both England and America froze as they saw a human-shaped silhouette appear in the smoke. Incoherent yelling could be heard coming from the smoke, and the silhouette turned its head sharply. It quickly returned its gaze to face forward, however, and started moving in America and England's direction.

Once the silhouette cleared the smoke, it became clear that it was no silhouette; but an actual person. It appeared to be little more than a teenage boy with unkempt blond hair. He was wearing a blue military coat and white trousers, and was holding a musket.

"My God…" England said, still frozen to the spot.

The person's head quite suddenly turned in England's direction. His eyes narrowed, and for half a second, he just stared at England. Then, without a warning, he lifted his musket and aimed it directly at England.

"Hey!"

America saw what was about to happen and charged forward to try to stop the stranger, but was a fraction of a second too slow. The stranger fired, and the shot struck England in the shoulder. Crying out in pain and surprise, England staggered backwards, gripping his wounded shoulder with the opposite hand. America, meanwhile, tackled the stranger right after the shot was fired, and both men crashed onto the pavement.

America seized the musket and tried to wrest it from his opponent's grip. This task proved to be surprisingly difficult; the stranger reacted quickly by tightening his grip and pulling back. Having not anticipated his opponent being so strong, America was taken by surprise, and nearly lost his grip on the musket.

Both men struggled to their feet, while still maintaining their death grips on the musket. Realizing that the tug-of-war was getting nowhere fast, America turned sharply, trying to force his opponent up against the wall. Even that move proved unsuccessful, and his opponent responded by kicking America hard in the knee, causing America's legs to buckle. While he struggled to regain balance, America's grip on the musket loosened just enough for his opponent to yank the weapon free, but momentum carried him several steps backward.

The stranger gave America almost no time to fully recover; right as America was back on his feet, the stranger was already pressing his attack again. He charged forward with the bayonet aimed at America's chest. America stepped to the side, but instead of trying to grab the musket this time, he seized his opponent by the arm, twisting it to the point where he almost broke it, causing the stranger to scream in pain. America released the arm, only to punch the stranger in the jaw. Finally, the boy dropped the musket and collapsed on the pavement.

America picked up the musket and took a few steps back, stealing a glance behind him to see how England was doing. The Englishman was sitting down, his right hand still holding his left shoulder, which was bleeding pretty heavily at this point.

"Are you OK, dude?" America asked, turning slightly so he could face England, but still watch the stranger out of the corner of his eye.

England's first response was a string of expletives, muttered under his breath.

"I'll be fine," he said finally.

Meanwhile, the stranger slowly got back on his feet, but now that he was unarmed, he made no attempt to attack either America or England again. He just stood there, massaging his jaw and glaring at England.

America focused his attention on the stranger. He kept the musket pointed at the boy, in case he tried anything.

"Who are you?" America demanded.

The boy narrowed his eyes at America, but said nothing. Behind America, England made a strange choking sound, prompting America to steal another glance in England's direction to see what was wrong. England gingerly picked himself up off the ground and walked over to America's side.

"What?" America asked, shooting England a confused look.

"I think you know full well who that is…" England whispered.

America looked back at the boy, this time carefully examining his clothing and facial features, looking for something that would clue him in to the boy's identity.

He had cornflower blue eyes, and blond hair that looked like it hadn't been combed in weeks; with several stray locks sticking out at odd angles. That tattered blue uniform looked very much like the kind America and his men had worn during his Revolution. America glanced down at the musket, then back at the boy.

_That can't be right… he's not… me?_

America shook his head. The similarities in facial features had to be a coincidence; and blond hair and blue eyes weren't exactly a rare combination. It was entirely possible that this was just a random soldier, somehow taken out of his normal time by this magical anomaly.

_Then again, he was freakishly strong, too…_

"Where am I?"

America looked up suddenly, his thoughts having been interrupted by the boy's question. When he looked at the boy, however, he noticed the boy was still glaring at England. The question had been directed at him, not America.

England cast about for an answer. _Do I just tell him he's not in his own time anymore?_ He thought. _We didn't even bring him here… if I can figure out how to send him back, and he never finds out when and where this is, maybe a plausible lie will be all that's needed to satisfy him…_

"What sorcery have you been messing with this time?" the boy spat. "Where have you taken me, and why?"

England temporarily cast aside the notion of coming up with a plausible lie. "I haven't _taken_ you anywhere," he said. "Your coming here was just as much a surprise to us as it was to you."

The boy looked unconvinced. However, he turned his attention away from England for a moment, and was now glaring at America.

"'Us?'" he repeated. He gestured at America. "Who is this then? A friend of yours?"

England winced at the venom the boy had put in the word 'friend' when he spoke it. He stole a glance over at America, who appeared to be taking the boy's words surprisingly well.

America appeared to be about to give a reply, but was interrupted by the sounds of police sirens. He rolled his eyes and swore under his breath. The last thing they needed was the police getting involved.

The boy suddenly froze in alarm, eyes wide and looking around for the source of the siren noises.

"What is that?" he asked.

"It's…" America began. _Crap. How the hell do I explain police sirens to a guy from the 1700's?_

He looked pleadingly at England. Unfortunately, England looked just as lost and panicked as America felt.

"I need to go outside and deal with this," America whispered.

"No, you don't!" England hissed. "Let me do it."

America frowned. "Why?"

Out of the corner of his eye, America noticed the boy had suddenly started moving in his direction. He turned to one side, holding the musket out of reach with one hand, and blocking the boy's punch with the other. He kicked the boy in the shin, then followed that up by whacking the boy over the head with the butt of the musket. The boy collapsed, unconscious.

"Seriously…" America muttered. "What the hell was that about?"

England, meanwhile, had taken the opportunity to quietly leave the alley. There was one police car parked on the curb already, and from the sound of it, an ambulance was on its way as well. England walked over to meet the police officer.

"Sir? Are you all right?" the officer asked, immediately taking note of England's shoulder wound. "What happened?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Alright, here's the next chapter. Here's where things get really confusing.**

**Be sure to leave a review; I really do enjoy feedback from the readers! And, as always, Hetalia's not mine.**

* * *

There was little point in attempting to stop the police from going into the alley to investigate what had happened. England stayed outside, on the sidewalk with one officer at his side while he waited for an ambulance. During the wait, he calmly spoke to the officer, but internally, was on the verge of panic. He barely understood what was going on himself; how was he supposed to come up with a plausible explanation for the police?

Inside the alley itself, America was in similar straits. He slung the musket over his shoulder, then picked up the unconscious boy in his arms just in time for a handful of policemen to come running into the alley.

America immediately put the boy back down, carefully laying him face up on the pavement. He withdrew a card, which identified him as a high-up government agent, and showed it to the officers.

"I was doing some investigating back here when this boy showed up," America explained before any of the cops could say a word. He gestured at the musket on his shoulder. "This is his. He shot at my friend, which started the whole fight. I managed to knock the kid out, and take his gun away."

The officers looked at the boy's unconscious form, then exchanged glances with each other. One of them chuckled, and muttered something about costumes and role-playing going too far. Another simply stared at the boy with a raised eyebrow.

"Does he have any ID on him?" one of the officers asked.

America shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I can look."

_I doubt I'll find anything, though._

He knelt beside the boy and began searching the pockets of his tattered coat. All he found were typical 18th century battle accoutrements – gunpowder, musket balls, and some tools for cleaning the musket.

America stood back up and gave the police officer an apologetic look.

"That's it," America said. "No ID."

The officer stared at the items America had found, which were now scattered all over the ground. He knelt down to have a closer look.

"Are these real?" he asked. "Or is this kid one of those reenactment hobbyists, and he got lost or something?"

America had to suppress a laugh. "They're real," he said. "Besides, I don't think a re-enactor would have tried to shoot me and my friend on sight."

"Well then what the hell is he doing with all this stuff then?"

America shrugged. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

A weak groaning noise from the boy distracted America and the policeman from the scattered items. America made as if to pick the boy up again, but the boy's arm jerked suddenly when America reached for it.

"He's coming around now," America said. "Maybe I can ask him."

America lifted the boy to his feet. Holding the boy's right arm around his own shoulders, America began making his way out of the alley at a very slow walk. As the boy regained consciousness, he began walking on his own feet, easing America's burden slightly. The two made it out of the alley, but no sooner had they made it out than America realized that was a bad idea.

Two police cars and an ambulance were parked on the curbside, lights still flashing. The back doors of the ambulance were open, and the EMTs were carrying out a stretcher. England was standing nearby, leaning against the building wall for support, and still clutching his wounded shoulder. Beside him stood another cop. Across the street, a handful of onlookers stared at the scene, wondering what was going on.

America felt the boy tense up. He realized he couldn't blame him, given the boy's circumstances.

One of the EMTs gestured for England to come to him and get on the stretcher, but England remained in his spot.

"I'll be fine," he said. "I don't need to go to the hospital."

"Sir, you've lost a lot of blood-"

"I know, dammit!" England interrupted. He abruptly cleared his throat before continuing. "My apologies. But, really, I'll be fine. I don't need treatment."

The boy turned his head in England's direction, and he narrowed his eyes, giving the Englishman a death glare. He tried to pull free from America, but America tightened his grip on the boy's arm. Much to America's surprise and annoyance, the boy fought even harder to free himself, and it took most of America's strength to maintain his grip.

_How the hell is he so strong?_ America wondered.

"What are you doing?" America asked, trying to steer the boy away from England.

"Let me go!" the boy said, continuing his struggle even as America practically dragged him along the sidewalk.

Heaving an annoyed sigh, America merely continued to drag the boy away from the scene until he reached his car. Keeping one hand tightly gripped on the back of the boy's coat, America opened the rear passenger side door with his free hand, then stepped inside, dragging the boy in after him. When they were both seated, America reached over the boy to pull the door shut again. Quickly withdrawing his hand from the door, America then reached into his pocket and felt for his keys, pushing the button on the clicker to remotely lock the doors.

The boy immediately grabbed the door handle and tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. He pulled harder, and ended up pulling the handle clean off the rest of the door. America seized the boy's arm and twisted it until the boy let out a scream of pain and dropped the door handle.

"For Christ's sake, kid, stop!" America said.

The boy glared at America for several tense seconds, eyeing his musket; which was still slung over America's shoulder, before finally forcing himself to relax. He slumped back against the back of the seat, having clearly given up fighting for now, but continued to glare at America.

"Are you done?" America asked.

No reply.

_Good, it looks like he's finally calming down,_ America thought. _Now, let's see if he'll actually answer any questions…_

"Alright," America said. "Look, kid, I'm trying to help you. I know it probably doesn't look like it, but trust me."

The boy's glare softened into a confused look.

"But… you're with Kirkland…" he said. "How do I know this isn't a trap? Where am I, anyway?"

America stared, dumfounded, at the boy.

_He knows England personally,_ he realized. _That explains why he tried to shoot him. And he looks like me, and has my strength… is this really me from back in the Revolution days?_

America shook his head. _That doesn't make sense. If this really is me from the past, wouldn't I remember this? _

"Sir?"

America was jolted from his reverie. He stared at the boy – his younger self? – and was completely at a loss for what to say. Clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly, America thought quickly. At the very least, he could stall until he thought of something plausible to tell the boy.

"This isn't a trap," America said. "Seriously, don't you think we'd have already executed whatever plan we had if it was? Hell, we could easily have killed you by now."

_I crack myself up. Kill my younger self? Seriously?_

The boy was not as amused, however.

"Sir Kirkland doesn't need to kill me to accomplish his goals," he said.

America blinked. _You're not helping, kid,_ he thought. "Would you believe me if I said I'm going to try to help you get out of here?"

"No," the boy said flatly. "I have no reason to trust you."

America heaved another exasperated sigh. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice," he said. "You have no idea where you are or how you got here. Without my help, you can't leave either. So, for now, at least, you're gonna have to trust me."

The boy stared in silent defiance at America for several seconds, but finally relented.

"Fine," he said, lowering his gaze to the floor.

Letting out another sigh – one of relief this time – America unlocked the car doors and got out. The boy was about to follow, but America gestured for him to stay seated.

"Just stay there for now, alright?" America said. He went to the driver's side door and opened it, then climbed into the driver's seat. He took the musket off his shoulder and set it on the floor of the passenger seat. Now, the boy would be hard pressed to reach the musket without America noticing and doing something about it.

"What are you doing?" the boy asked. He started to look around the car's interior, looking thoroughly bewildered and confused. "What is this?"

America forced himself to ignore the questions, and turned the key in the ignition. Upon hearing the engine, the boy jumped and looked around in alarm, trying to identify the source of the sound. When the car started to move, he gripped the back of the passenger seat as if he were holding onto it for dear life. He looked out the front windshield, but this only seemed to terrify him further.

"Is this a _carriage_?" he asked. "Where are the horses?"

America rolled his eyes. Literally everything this kid was seeing was going to be unfamiliar, and America didn't want to have to try explaining everything to him.

_I wonder if he'll figure it out on his own,_ America thought. _Then again, that might not be a good thing if he does…_

Fortunately, the boy went quiet for a bit as America continued to drive. Instead, he had taken to just staring wide-eyed at everything. America stopped the car at a traffic light, and, while he was stopped, glanced in the rear view mirror to check on the boy.

"That… looks a lot like one of the flags I use…" America heard the boy whisper.

America looked out the window to the right. Sure enough, one of the buildings had an American flag flying next to the entrance. America bit his lip.

The light turned green, and America stepped on the gas. He drove on in silence; neither he nor the boy spoke again until America brought the car to a stop in a parking slot at the hotel he'd been staying in. He hurriedly exited the vehicle, grabbing the musket and stowing it in the trunk, and then he took the boy inside and up to his room.

"Have a seat," America said, gesturing at the chair that stood next to a small, round desk nearby the room's only window.

The boy did as he was told, albeit with a quizzical expression on his face. America remained standing, though he leaned casually against the wall.

"Um, I don't think I ever got your name," America said. _I swear, if he says what I think he's going to say…_

The boy looked hesitant, but he relented.

"Alfred," he mumbled.

America froze. Even though that was exactly the answer he'd been expecting, that somehow didn't make it feel any less shocking to hear.

"What's your last name?"

"…Jones."

That clinched it. America had suspected it for a while now, but had been reluctant to admit it. Now, there was no denying that this boy was in fact America's younger self. Unfortunately, knowing this only generated more questions than it answered.

_This doesn't make any sense; I'm going to need to talk to England._ _Problem is, I can't; not while my younger self is present. That version of me is still at war with England; even if he doesn't try to attack him again, he's definitely not going to trust him. He doesn't even trust _me… _then again, he doesn't know that I'm him… God, this is confusing._

"Alfred Jones," America said, as if testing the name. _It feels so weird to refer to someone else by _my _name_…

"…Would your middle initial be an 'F', by any chance?" he added.

The younger America narrowed his eyes, glaring suspiciously at his older self.

"How do you know that?" he demanded.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Sorry this is so late. Real life keeps getting in the way.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Enjoy.**

* * *

"How do you know my middle initial?" the young America demanded. "You didn't know the rest of my name…"

He trailed off, and his suspicious glare softened into a contemplative expression as he looked away, pondering an answer to his own question. An idea came to his mind, and he returned his focus to his older self, narrowing his eyes once again.

"You already knew my name," he stated. "How?"

"Um…" America began awkwardly. "I'd heard of you before, and so I thought I'd ask for your name, just to be sure it was you, you know?"

"Heard of me?" the younger America now looked puzzled. "So, whatever country this is that you've brought me to, knows who I am?"

He got up from the bed and looked around the room, still puzzled. Taking a few steps over to the window, he drew back the curtain and pointed outside.

"I've never seen a city like this before. Where is this? Am I in Europe?"

America tried to stifle a laugh, but was only partially successful. His younger self shot America a questioning look.

"What's so funny?"

America shook his head vigorously.

"You're not in Europe," he said, still fighting off the urge to chuckle.

"Then where…" the young America began, but quickly trailed off. A few seconds later, his eyes went wide again with another realization.

"One of the buildings had a flag similar to my own flying in front of it," he said. There was a pause, and the boy shook his head. "No… that's impossible… I'd _know_…"

Some more head-shaking and muttering later, and he gave up. He turned his attention to America again.

"Where am I?" the boy quietly demanded.

_Damn, I was hoping he'd figure it out, and I wouldn't have to actually _tell_ him,_ America thought. _Whatever. He'd end up knowing one way or another, sooner or later. I may as well tell him._

"Camden, South Carolina," America said.

Anger flashed in the young America's eyes.

"You're lying," he said. "I was in Camden before you and Kirkland summoned me here; it looked nothing like _this_." He gestured once again to the streets outside.

Frustrated, America ran a hand through his hair. His other hand dug into his pocket, where he felt his phone and wallet. Suddenly, an idea hit him, and he grabbed the wallet and pulled it out of his pocket. Opening it up, he found the card that he'd used to identify himself to the police earlier. Aside from the card, there were a couple dollar bills. America withdrew the card and the money.

"I'm not lying, kid," America said. "We really are in Camden, just… not the Camden as you might know it."

"What does that mean?"

America handed the card and dollar bills to the boy. Taking the items, America's younger self decided to look at the card first.

"_Alfred F. Jones?_" he said incredulously. "What is this?!"

He tried looking over the rest of the card, but none of it seemed to make any sense to him. Putting the card down on the desk, he turned his attention to the money. Raising an eyebrow at the odd color of the paper, the young America then actually looked at the print on the notes to see what it said. He immediately took note of the words "The United States of America" displayed in large print above a portrait of General Washington. Underneath the portrait were the words "One Dollar". He didn't even try to make sense of the other gibberish printed on either side of the portrait, except for the phrase "This note is legal tender for all debts, public and private" written in much smaller print just under "The United States of America".

For over a minute, the younger America was speechless. A million questions raced through his head, and he had no idea which to ask first. Yet, at the same time, the answers to each question were right there in plain sight, in his hand, as well as standing just a few feet away from him.

"The United States of America," he muttered.

There was another long pause.

"You're me?" he asked. "How is that possible?"

America nodded. "I'm you in the future," he said. "You win the war; you're independent from England."

His younger self held an expression of shock for several seconds, but slowly relaxed and let out a sigh of relief. That didn't last long, however, as he suddenly looked up again at his older self, furrowing his brow once again in a puzzled expression.

"Then why was England with you?" his younger self asked. "If I become independent, then why is he still in my country?"

"He was just here to visit," America said quickly. "We're actually on good terms now, and I'd called him over, asking a favor, when you showed up."

The younger America nodded slowly. Handing the money and ID card back to America, he then took a few steps back and sat on the bed. For a minute, neither America could think of anything to say. The younger one stared at the floor; the other one put his card and money back in his pocket, then watched his other self stare at the floor.

_I need to talk to England, and have him explain this time travel thing to me,_ the older America thought. _Then, more importantly, we need to get this other me back to his time._

"What happened?"

America jolted. His younger self was now staring at him, with an expression that demanded an answer to the question he just asked. When America didn't answer right away, his counterpart tried clarifying.

"How did I end up in the future?" he asked.

America cast about desperately for an answer. Unfortunately, he had no idea what had happened himself; his best bet was to find England and ask him. And England was probably in the hospital, being treated for his shoulder wound.

"I don't know," America said with a shrug. "Sorry."

"Can you send me back?"

"We don't know what brought you here in the first place," America replied. "I'm sure we can figure how to send you back eventually, but right now, I don't have any answers."

_I could try giving England a call,_ America thought. He felt around in his pocket for his phone.

With his phone in hand, America headed for the door. His other self immediately got up, thinking to follow America outside. America gestured for the boy to stay seated.

"This'll only take a minute," America said. "Just wait right there."

America stepped outside and quickly punched in England's number on the phone. To America's chagrin, England never answered, and the call went to voicemail. Swearing mildly under his breath, America put the phone away and went back inside.

His younger self looked up at him expectantly as he entered the room.

"What happened?" he asked.

America shook his head.

"Nothing," he said. "We're going to need England's help; and he's still in the hospital. All we can do right now is wait."

"What do we need England for?" the younger America asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

"He knows more about what's going on than I do," America replied. "I have no idea how it works, but there's some kind of supernatural… thing… going on here that somehow brought you here from the past. Whatever it is, it's something in England's field of expertise, not mine."

America's words did nothing to reassure his other self, as he still held that confused – and slightly skeptical – expression. For a minute, the room was silent again while America tried to think of what to do next.

Depending on how bad his injury was, England probably wouldn't come out of the hospital for several hours. Even taking the nations' superhuman healing capabilities into account, that shoulder wound was still a serious injury that would take time to heal. In the meantime, America didn't want to be stuck in his hotel room, twiddling his thumbs while he waited on England. He needed something to do.

_Come to think of it, there's a McDonald's not too far from the hotel,_ America thought. _We could have lunch while we wait._

"Hey, do you want something to eat?" America asked.

"What?"

"We can't really do much at the moment, since we're still waiting for England," America explained. "So, I figured we may as well have some lunch while we wait."

"Oh." The younger America nodded his understanding.

"But first, you should probably change clothes."

America went over to his suitcase and opened it, looking through the changes of clothes he'd brought, and selecting something for his counterpart to wear. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a plain red T-shirt, tossing them onto the bed. The younger America picked up the clothes, staring at them curiously. A few seconds later, and America also tossed a pair of socks and tennis shoes onto the bed.

Closing the suitcase, America then headed to the bathroom, where he found his comb. When he returned to the bedside with the comb in hand, he noticed his younger self had not moved; he was still holding the clothes, and looked utterly confused.

"Here." America handed the comb to his other self.

The younger America gratefully accepted the comb. Dropping the clothes, he then began combing his hair. Less than two minutes later, his hair looked much neater, and had only one stray lock – his Nantucket – sticking up.

When the younger America finished combing his hair, America gestured back towards the bathroom door.

"You can change clothes in there," he said.

The younger America picked up the clothes, still regarding the items with a strange, unsure expression. He slowly went back into the bathroom and closed the door. While America waited for his counterpart to change, he pulled his phone back out, debating whether or not he should attempt to contact England again. He decided to send a quick text, letting England know where he and the other America would be.

After sending the text, America began to slowly pace in front of the bed, phone still in hand. For a few minutes, he waited patiently, but eventually, the wait started to feel unusually long. Shooting a quizzical glance at the bathroom door, America walked over to it and knocked.

He backed away in surprise when the door suddenly opened, and his younger counterpart stepped out. Only somewhat to America's surprise, the boy had managed to put on every article of clothing correctly. The only problem was that he had not bothered to tie the shoelaces.

America pointed down at the shoes. "You're gonna want to tie those; you'll trip over them if you don't."

The boy knelt down, and with America's help, tied the shoelaces. Now that he was completely dressed in the new clothing, the younger America went back to stand by the window, waiting for further instructions from his older self. America, meanwhile, quickly poked around in the bathroom, where he found the boy's uniform folded up in the corner. Apparently satisfied, America left the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

"Alright, come on," America said. He opened the room door and went outside, his younger self following close behind.

America led the way back to the car, and his younger self rode in the passenger seat while America drove. However, before they went anywhere, America spent almost a minute trying to explain the seat belt, and to help his other self actually use it properly. Finally, once both Americas had their seat belts on, America drove them out of the parking lot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: This one is a little bit silly. But don't worry; once England gets out of the hospital, things will go downhill.**

**I own nothing. Enjoy.**

* * *

The drive to McDonald's was quiet and uneventful. However, after America parked the car and the two men went inside, the restaurant appeared to be quite busy and loud in contrast. They took their place in line, and America directed his counterpart's attention to the menu display on the wall.

"That's the list of all the food choices you can get here," America explained.

The younger America just stared blankly at the menu.

"These words make no sense," he said. "And the pictures… don't look like any food I've ever seen."

America fought the urge to facepalm. _Duh. Of course my Revolutionary self doesn't know what a burger is,_ he thought.

As he was trying to think of how to explain burgers, America overheard his younger self mutter something about his future being strange. America shook his head, fighting back an amused grin.

_Come to think of it, I really don't need to explain this to him. He'll figure it out later, after England sends him back to his proper time, and he waits about two hundred years…_

"Yeah, um…" America began. "How about you go find a table and sit down, and I'll order for the both of us."

The younger America gave his older self a questioning look, but didn't argue. He sat down at the nearest empty table, continuing to stare at the menu, as if still attempting to figure it out. Meanwhile, America dug in his pocket and retrieved his wallet. A brief perusal of the menu, and he quickly decided what to get for himself and the younger America.

After placing his order, America sat next to his younger self to wait. Right as he sat down, however, two men walked into the restaurant. They quickly located the two Americas, and approached their table. America looked up at the two men, immediately recognizing them as agents Jameson and Talley.

"How did you two find – never mind," America began, standing up as he spoke. "What are you doing here?"

Talley and Jameson looked back and forth between the two Americas, then exchanged glances with each other. The younger America stood up as well. All four men held similar, confused expressions.

"Do you know these two?" he asked.

"Who is this?" Talley asked, jerking his thumb at the younger America.

Jameson narrowed his eyes briefly, surveying the young America carefully. Turning to face the other America, he said, "You didn't say your twin was in the area. What is going on, Jones?"

The young America's eyes went wide. His older self, on the other hand, folded his arms and let out an exasperated sigh.

"Matthew's still in Toronto," America said. "I haven't talked to him since last week."

"Then my question still stands," Talley said curtly. "Who is this?"

America bit his lip. "I'll explain later."

Talley arched an eyebrow. "Fine," he said. "Come with us back to that alley and explain there; we need to do more investigating anyway."

America pointed at the menu. "I literally _just_ ordered lunch," he said. "I'll be there when I'm finished."

Talley and Jameson were silent for several seconds.

"Be there in no less than an hour," Talley said. With that, he and Jameson left.

America stared incredulously after them until they were out of sight.

"The hell was that about?" he muttered.

"Who were those two men?" America's younger self asked.

"They were the guys who called me out here to investigate that… whatever it was that ended up bringing you here," America replied.

"Do they know who you are? One of them addressed you as 'Jones'."

"Yeah, sort of," America said. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he added, "They only know me by my human name."

Someone called out America's order number, and America went to retrieve the food. He brought the tray with the food on it and set it on the table. While America grabbed his food and began eating right away, his younger counterpart waited, watching the older one as if he were learning by observation. By the time America was halfway done with his burger, his younger self finally decided to go ahead and eat his food; however, he ate rather slowly.

When America finished eating, he briefly stood up to throw away his trash, then sat back down to wait for his other self to finish. However, his younger self had stopped eating, and was staring at his half-eaten burger with an arched eyebrow.

"What's the problem?" America asked.

"This is strange food," his younger self said. "I don't know if it's good or not."

America faked a cough to cover up his laughter.

"That's okay," America said. "If you don't want it, I'll finish it for you."

The younger America pushed the fries toward his older self, but threw the half-eaten burger in the trash can. America quickly finished off the fries while his other self threw away the last few pieces of trash. They then got up, left the restaurant, and went back to America's car.

From there, it was a relatively short drive back to that alley. The ambulance and police cars were gone, but the yellow tape was still up, blocking off the entrance of the alley. Talley and Jameson's car was parked nearby. America parked behind their car, and he and his counterpart got out.

America checked the agents' car, and when he saw no one inside, he ducked under the yellow tape and went into the alley. Not knowing what else to do, his counterpart followed him.

"There they are," America muttered.

Agents Talley and Jameson were standing in the middle of the alley; one of them was holding out what appeared to be a cell phone, and the other was staring down at England's incantation circle, which seemed to have gotten smeared somehow. More than likely, it had been smeared during America's scuffle with his younger self earlier.

"Guys?" America called, prompting both agents to abruptly look up at him.

"Mr. Jones," Talley said, stepping away from the incantation circle and approaching America.

Jameson, on the other hand, remained in his spot, and returned his attention to the device in his hand.

"So, what's going on?" America asked, gesturing toward their surroundings.

"Unfortunately, we don't know yet," Talley replied. "However, maybe you and this other fellow can help. Who is he, anyway? You said you would explain."

America looked at his younger self, then back at Talley. _Neither of these agents knows that I'm the personification of the United States,_ he thought. _If I tell them the truth, they'd find out…_

"I'm not entirely sure," America lied. "All I know is that he suddenly appeared in the alley earlier, much like that other man we found."

"What?!" America's younger self interjected, stepping in between America and Talley. "I'm not the only one who's been brought here?"

America gripped his younger self firmly on the shoulders.

"Calm down, kid!" America said. "No one else has been brought here. The man I mentioned is _from_ here, but he disappeared in this alley, and later reappeared."

The younger America visibly relaxed, and America let him go. As the younger nation stepped aside, Talley motioned for America to follow him over to the incantation circle. They stopped just outside it, looking quietly at it for a minute before America decided to speak up.

"When did you guys get back?" America asked. "I thought you were at the morgue."

"We didn't stay there for long," Talley explained. "The medical examiner needs time to perform the autopsy."

"Well, duh," America said. "But when did you get back?"

Talley shot America an annoyed glare. "An hour ago," he said curtly. Gesturing at the circle, he added, "Apparently, not long after this."

America returned his attention to the circle.

"What is it?" Talley demanded.

"It appears to be a chalk circle," America said.

The younger America covered his mouth with one hand to hide a smirk. Talley, on the other hand, was not as amused.

"We already know _that,_" Talley said. "But it wasn't here the last time we were in here. Did you or your friend have anything to do with it?"

"Oh," America said, nodding his head slowly. "Yeah, Mr. Kirkland drew this. He's… a little eccentric. He seems to think these circle thingies are useful."

Talley arched an eyebrow. Meanwhile, a few feet away, America's younger self was struggling to keep a straight face. And Jameson appeared to be so absorbed in whatever he was doing that he didn't notice the conversation going on next to him.

Heaving an annoyed sigh, Talley gave up questioning America. Instead, he turned his attention to Jameson. Jameson pushed a button on the device he was holding, then handed it to Talley. While Talley handled the device, it became Jameson's turn to talk to America.

"Where is Mr. Kirkland now?" he asked.

"In the hospital," America replied. "While we were investigating, this kid appeared out of nowhere, and there was a bit of a fight…"

Jameson stole a glance at the younger America. "He attacked your friend?" he asked incredulously. "Why?"

America shrugged. "He must've panicked or something."

Jameson nodded. "Will Mr. Kirkland be all right?"

"Yeah," America said. "He'll probably be out of the hospital within the next hour or so. It wasn't all that severe of an injury."

"Good." Jameson turned to face his fellow FBI agent. "Anything?" he asked.

Talley shook his head. "We should probably just leave this here for the next several hours; see what happens."

America gave Jameson a quizzical look.

"We were trying to see when those sounds were going to repeat again," Jameson explained. "I think we've already told you, but we've been recording the sounds, and when they occur. The sounds themselves are the same every time, but so far, they don't seem to be occurring at predictable intervals."

"…And…?" America said.

"That's all we know," Jameson said. "We haven't heard them since we've gotten back, but then again, we haven't been back for very long."

"Well, when my friend gets out of the hospital, he might be able to help," America said.

"I thought you said he was eccentric," Talley cut in.

America waved his hand dismissively. "That's only because of the chalk circle things," he reassured the agent. "He's actually really smart, and knows what he's doing."

Talley looked unconvinced, but America wasn't about to press the issue. Ignoring Talley, America went back to talking to Jameson.

"When will we hear back from the medical examiner?" he asked.

Jameson shrugged. "A few days, at the minimum," he said. "That's the least of our concerns, however."

He pointed at the younger America.

"You say he appeared out of nowhere during your investigation?"

America looked at his younger self, who had taken to staring at the traffic going by on the street outside.

"Yeah," America said. "So?"

"I'm trying to ascertain if he's… from around here," Jameson said. "He looks so much like you, I thought he was your twin brother. But your brother lives in Canada, so there must be some other explanation for the resemblance."

There was an awkward silence.

_I need to get rid of these guys,_ America thought. _If they figure out who this other me is…_

America looked at his other self again, belatedly realizing that the younger nation was no longer wearing the Revolutionary uniform. For a moment, he had forgotten that he'd made the boy change into modern clothes. Once again, America had to fight the urge to slap himself.

_If they do figure out that it's another me, maybe they'll just think he's from a parallel universe,_ America thought. _That sort of thing won't necessarily reveal anything these guys shouldn't know…_

"Well, whoever he is, until we can figure this thing out, I'll make sure his accommodations are taken care of," America said suddenly. "I'll get him a room at the hotel I'm staying at."

Jameson gave America a curious look. "Are you sure he can't just go back in the alley, and eventually be taken back to where he came from?"

"No," America said decisively. "The last person who came out of there before this kid ended up in the morgue, remember?"

"Good point."

"Okay. Now, I'm going to take this kid back to the hotel. I'll check back with you guys in an hour."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: This one's longer than normal, but it should be fine. And, the 'General Gates' that is mentioned in this chapter is referring to General Horatio Gates, an American general from the Revolutionary War. He was the commander of the American forces at the Battle of Camden.**

**Hetalia does not belong to me. Enjoy.**

* * *

England made sure his stay in the hospital was as brief as possible. He had already surprised the paramedics with how well he was handling the injury before even reaching the hospital. The nurses at the hospital had then concluded that the injury was not as severe as it had initially appeared. Content to let them believe that, England kept his mouth shut as they treated him, and in less than two hours, was finally discharged from the hospital.

His shoulder now being held steady by all the bandages, England was able to walk out of the hospital with relative ease. Taking a seat at a nearby bus stop, England reached for his phone with his uninjured arm, and called America.

"Yeah?" the American answered. "You out of the hospital?"

"Yes," England replied. "I just got discharged a few minutes ago. If possible, could you pick me up and take me back to the alley?"

"Um… sure," America said, though he sounded hesitant. "How's your shoulder?"

"It's healing normally," England said dryly. _Though_ _if your idiotic other self hadn't panicked, we wouldn't even be having this conversation…_

There was a brief pause in the conversation before England continued.

"Speaking of my shoulder," England said. "Where is that boy that shot me, anyway? He didn't run off or disappear, did he?"

"No," America replied. "He's at the hotel with me."

"What?!" England exclaimed, standing up abruptly from the bench as he spoke. "Why did you take him out of that alley? He's _you, _more than two hundred years out of his time! We can't let him go around, seeing – well, his own future – before he's supposed to! He's probably seen too much already!"

"Why?" America asked.

England sighed in exasperation, now walking briskly away from the bench, and retreating towards the wall of a nearby building. Leaning against the wall, he took a slow, deep breath before continuing.

"You really are a complete idiot," England said. "You can't let someone see their future before it happens to them. Do you have any idea how seeing this is going to affect yourself?"

"He was freaking out at first," America admitted. "But, I don't get why this is such a big deal. So now he knows that he won. What's the problem?"

"He can't know that he wins until he actually does," England said, his voice starting to crack. "Sending someone back in time with an object from the future can cause a paradox. The same principle applies to _knowledge_ that is brought back. Even merely _knowing_ the outcome to something that, for your younger self, hasn't happened yet can cause a time paradox!"

England paused to let his words sink in. For a while, America said nothing either.

"Um, how exactly?" America said finally.

England groaned. _God, the brat can be so _thick_ at times,_ he thought.

"It's not like I gave him formulas or designs for things he doesn't have yet," America said. "In fact, I've told him hardly anything. Literally _all_ he knows is that he wins, and becomes his own country. That doesn't sound dangerous to me."

There was another pause.

"What if this had been you, from, say, World War II?" America continued. "I think he'd be relieved more than anything, knowing that he'd survive the Blitz, and the Allies would win the war."

_Dammit, he's got a point…_

"I don't think that would cause a paradox. So why would telling my past self that I become independent be any different?"

England thought about it for a minute before replying.

"That's information he's not supposed to have yet. If he's told the war is a foregone conclusion, he might approach battles differently. Possibly enough to alter some events."

There was a pause while America thought it over. While he waited for a response, England could hear the other nation mumbling incoherently to himself on the other end.

"Uh huh," America said finally. "I think I understand what you're getting at."

"Then why do you still sound like you don't believe me?" England asked.

"I-" America began, but abruptly cut himself off. "Whatever. Forget it. How about I just pick you up and we can figure this paradox thing out later, ok?"

England was about to protest, but again, America had a point. Arguing wouldn't do anyone any good right now. What they really needed to do was get the other America back to the correct time. They would sort out the temporal mechanics at that point, and deal with any possible paradoxes _there_.

"Fine."

"Ok. I'll be there in a few minutes."

The two nations hung up, and England shoved his phone back in his pocket. After a minute of standing still, he took to pacing back and forth as he waited for America to show up.

**(-)**

_England, you're an idiot. The universe isn't going to collapse on itself because I told myself that I win the Revolution…_

After hanging up the phone, America left his room, stopping by his younger self's room to let him he'd be going out for a bit. He left instructions for his younger self to stay in the room until he got back, then promptly left.

_I'm going all over the place today,_ America thought to himself as he once again jumped into the driver's seat of his car and revved the engine. _First the alley, then back to the hotel, now the hospital…_

When he got about halfway to the hospital, America realized he never told his younger self when he'd be back. Just after that, he also remembered that he was supposed to be meeting back up with the two FBI agents in the alley. He'd probably end up arriving later than promised, but that was Talley and Jameson's problem, not America's. His younger self would be waiting for quite a while, it seemed.

_My younger self can handle being alone in a hotel room for a few hours,_ America reassured himself. _The investigation is slightly more important right now._

Twenty minutes later, America arrived at the hospital, and idled for less than a minute before England found him, and got in the passenger side of the car. As soon as England had the passenger door closed, America shifted the car back into drive, and drove away from the hospital.

"Take us back to the hotel," England said. "We need to-"

"No," America interrupted. "My younger self can wait. We need to go back to the alley. And isn't that where you wanted me to take you anyway?"

"That was before I found out that you had taken your younger self back to the hotel!" England snapped. "We need to go back to the hotel to pick him up, _then _we can go back to the alley and figure out how to send him back to his own time!"

"He's not harming anything, where he is," America protested. "I told him to stay in his room; he's going to stay there until we get back."

England snorted derisively. "What makes you think he's going to follow instructions?"

America rolled his eyes. "He's not an idiot, England," he said. "I think he's got enough sense to listen to me and just stay put."

"I don't think so," England said wryly. "Do you really think your younger self is going to take orders from someone he doesn't know, while trapped in unfamiliar territory?"

"He knows who I am!" America said exasperatedly. "He would listen to his own self!"

It was England's turn to roll his eyes. "You don't remember yourself very well, do you?" he countered. "You were a rebellious little brat, who wouldn't listen to a word anyone said!"

"No I wasn't!"

"What are you, five?" England asked rhetorically. "You just proved my point."

It was awkwardly silent in the car for a few seconds.

"You know what," America said. "I bet you ten bucks my younger self is, in fact, still in his room."

"Fine."

With that, America changed his route. Instead of heading for the alley, he was now driving back toward the hotel. England leaned back in the seat, folding his arms and staring out the passenger window.

_Talley and Jameson are just going to have to wait, I guess, _America thought as he continued to drive. _I'm sure they'll cope._

Another twenty minutes, and America pulled into the hotel parking lot and parked the car. He and England quickly got out, and England followed America up to the room that America's younger self was supposed to be staying in. America knocked on the door.

Much to England's surprise, the door opened just seconds later, and there stood the younger America. However, the fact that this other America had actually followed instructions wasn't the most shocking part of what he was seeing.

"What happened to the uniform?" England asked. Livid, he turned slowly to face the older America. "Why is he wearing your clothes?"

The younger America visibly tensed up at the sight of England, and even took a step backward. He gripped the door tightly, ready to slam it shut at any second.

"I didn't want him to stick out," the older America said defensively. "Don't worry; he can easily change back later. Oh, and, you owe me ten bucks now."

The younger America frowned.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"It's nothing," America said. "Come on, we need to go back to the alley."

The younger America's face lit up. "Did you figure out how to send me back?" he asked.

"Not yet," America said. "England and I are working on it. But, to do that, we need to go back to the alley."

"Make sure he changes back into his uniform first," England said.

**(-)**

A full half an hour later, and the three nations finally arrived back at the alley. Before leaving the hotel, America briefly contacted Jameson, informing him that he'd been delayed, and would be back at the alley later than anticipated. Jameson had sounded understanding enough, but America thought he'd heard Talley making angry comments in the background.

_I'm so glad we'll be rid of those guys soon,_ America had thought as he'd hung up.

When they entered the alley, the two Americas went in first, followed by England. The two FBI agents arched their eyebrows at the sight of the younger America.

"Is this the same kid from earlier?" Jameson asked. "If so, why is he wearing an anachronistic outfit?"

_That's none of your business, _America thought.

"It's a costume," England lied quickly before America could formulate a response.

"I take it you are Mr. Kirkland?" Jameson asked.

England nodded, and the two men shook hands. Talley stepped forward, and he also shook hands with the Englishman.

Having exchanged greetings, England then went to business. He withdrew his spellbooks from his satchel while America went back to the FBI agents' car to discuss something with them. This left no one watching the younger America; fortunately, he didn't bother trying to do anything. Rather, he watched England with only partial interest as the other nation flipped through page after page in his books.

Back at the FBI car, Talley pulled out his recording device and played back his latest recording for America to hear. For the first time, America was hearing the strange sounds in their entirety. It turned out to be surprisingly short, however; the full recording lasted just barely ten minutes.

At first, all America could make out was gunfire and incoherent shouting. However, halfway through, he heard familiar voices. Once voice, he almost immediately recognized as England's. Another one took him a little bit longer to identify; but eventually, America realized that it was his own. Yet a third voice also sounded familiar, but America was having a much harder time placing it. He knew he'd heard it before, but it had been centuries ago.

_Is that… General Gates' voice?_ America wondered.

Suddenly struck with realization, America slapped himself on the forehead.

"What is it?" Jameson asked.

_If those sounds are from over two hundred and thirty years ago, and we're in Camden…_ America thought. _Those sounds must be from the Battle of Camden. That _is _General Gates' voice, giving orders to me and the rest of the army…_

"Mr. Jones?"

America ignored the two FBI agents, still lost in thought.

_That most likely means that my younger self got pulled out of that battle while England was casting that spell. And that's probably where Mr. Hayes got sent to when he disappeared, which explains the gunshot wound he had when he came back…_

"Mr. Jones!"

America jumped, suddenly snapping back to reality. He exchanged glances with Talley and Jameson.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about the recording," America said.

"What do you make of it?" Talley asked impatiently.

"I dunno yet," America lied. "Do you mind if I let my friend listen to it? He's in this investigation too."

Talley looked reluctant, but he handed the device to America. America immediately took the device, and went back into the alley.

"Arthur!" America called. "Listen to this."

England set his spellbooks aside while America took a seat next to him and played the recording again. Out of curiosity, the younger America came over as well, standing behind the two older nations to listen in.

England forcibly kept his expression blank the whole time he listened. When the recording ended, America pocketed the device and looked expectantly over at England. Behind them, the younger America still silently stood, eyes wide with shock, and one hand covering his mouth.

"What do you think?" America asked England. Neither nation had yet noticed the younger America standing behind them.

"I… that's…" the younger America muttered.

Both America and England turned abruptly, finally noticing the other America.

"What is it?" England asked.

"Those sounds…" the younger America began. "It sounds like the battle I was in before I was brought here. I even heard my voice in it for a moment!"

America and England exchanged glances.

"How did you do that?" the younger America asked, pointing at America's pocket, where he had put the device. "If this is the future, how did you manage to capture sounds from my time?"

At that point, Talley and Jameson chose to come back into the alley. All three nations turned to face the two FBI agents; England and the older America wore expressions of annoyance, the younger America looked more apprehensive.

"Has Mr. Kirkland been fully debriefed on everything so far?" Talley asked.

"Yes, I have," England said curtly. "Was there something you two needed?"

"Mr. Jones, if you could hand my recording device back…" Jameson said.

America pulled the object in question out of his pocket and returned it. Talley, meanwhile, was staring incredulously at the younger America. America looked at his younger self, then at Talley.

_I _really _need to get rid of these guys,_ America thought. _I don't like that look Talley's got on his face… if I don't get rid of him, he'll find out what we are._

"Well, it looks to me like there isn't much else that can be done at the moment," America said suddenly. "I've told my friend everything, but it'll be a while before we can come up with something to actually fix the issue," he continued, jerking his thumb at the open space behind him; approximately the spot where his younger self had appeared earlier in the day.

England quickly realized what America was doing, and stood up, clutching his satchel and spellbooks close.

"He's right," England added. "There is no point in anyone in this group staying here any longer today; we should all retire to our respective rooms."

Talley arched an eyebrow, but he and Jameson got the point.

"Contact us when you're ready tomorrow morning," Jameson told America. With that, he led Talley out of the alley.

The three nations waited until Talley and Jameson had gotten into their car, and driven out of sight before turning to face each other again.

"Now what?" the younger America asked.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Finally, the story starts to actually go somewhere. Also, I apologize for the wait. I don't have nearly the amount of spare time that I used to.**

**You know the drill: I own nothing.**

* * *

With the FBI agents gone, England reopened the spellbook he had been looking at before America had made him listen to the recording. Some frantic page-flipping later, and he found the exact spell he'd been looking at as well.

"So, England," America began. "What do you make of the recording?"

England lowered the book, staring blankly at the wall.

"As I recall, you said the sounds sound exactly the same every time they occur," England said.

England paused, continuing to think. Meanwhile, the younger America kept looking back and forth between his older self and England, hoping one of them would explain what they were talking about.

"A tiny, repeating snippet of time…" England muttered. "It almost sounds like a stable time loop, but I don't see why we're able to see it here, in a different time… and only in this alley, too…"

The younger America frowned.

"What's a stable time loop?" he asked.

England looked blank for a minute. _How do I explain this in layman's terms…_

"It involves traveling backwards through time," England began. "Let's say someone were to do this in an attempt to change something in the past. However, by doing so, the time traveler then creates the circumstances that necessitated the time travel to begin with. In other words, he's responsible for whatever happened that he was trying to change."

"So, when he reaches his own time, he travels back in time again, and does the same thing over and over?" the younger America ventured.

"Precisely," England replied.

"So, someone traveled to my time and tried to change something?" the younger America asked. "And accidentally made a… time loop?"

"It looks that way," England said. "However, that doesn't explain everything. For instance, why is the window only ten minutes long? And why are we able to observe it in the first place?"

Everyone exchanged glances with each other; no one tried venturing a guess to answer either of England's questions. England furrowed his brow, staring intently at the floor, and mouthing something under his breath.

"There are too many things that aren't making sense," America said. "Maybe we should go back to the hotel for the time being. We shouldn't experiment with anything until we know exactly what we're dealing with."

"Not quite yet," England said quickly. "There's something I want to try before we leave. It might give us a few clues to point us in the right direction."

"What's that?" America asked.

England pulled some chalk out of his satchel and began drawing another incantation circle. When he finished, he stood in the center, holding his spellbook open, and began chanting.

For a minute, nothing seemed to be happening. Then, England abruptly stopped chanting and stood absolutely still for a moment before finally closing his spellbook and stepping out of the circle. Both Americas gave him a quizzical look.

"What did you do?" America asked.

"It's a simple spell that reveals enchantments that might be present in an area," Engalnd explained. "And, as I suspected, whatever created this time loop was magical in nature."

"So, it's magical time travel," America said. "How is knowing that going to help us?"

"Well, it tells us that whoever did this has at least some knowledge of magic," England replied. "However, time travel is horribly complicated, and can easily go wrong. And it's quite clear that something went very wrong."

The younger America nodded, but was starting to look worried.

"Can we fix it?" he asked.

England took a deep breath and stared at the ground for a long time.

"I don't know," he said. "I can try. But it will take time."

"Is there anything else you learned from that little spell thingy you just did?" America asked.

"Yes," England said. "There's something… encoded in the magic…"

America raised one eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

England shrugged. "I think it might be an additional spell, woven into the first… Whatever it is, it's so badly damaged as to be completely undecipherable. All I know is that there's _something_ else there."

Both Americas still looked confused.

"Forget it," England said. _America wouldn't understand, no matter how well I explained it._ "Let's go back to the hotel. There's nothing else for us to do here today."

America shrugged and led everyone back to his car. They all got in, and in short order, were on their way.

**(-)**

Upon reaching the hotel, each nation promptly locked himself in his room. The younger America, wanting to avoid the confused stares of passersby, did so to stay out of sight. However, he quickly grew bored and began to experiment with the strange new technologies available to him. Once he found the remote control for the room's television, he spent the next several hours pushing random buttons and staring in awe at the screen.

England, after locking himself in his room, immediately took out his spellbooks and some scrap paper and began drafting ideas on how to send the younger America back to his time, as well fix that strange temporal anomaly in the alley. He was at this for the rest of the day, and well into the night as well.

When America reached his room, he immediately flopped onto the bed and got out his phone. He called the director of the FBI.

"Mr. Jones?" the director asked, sounding surprised. "What is going on over there?"

"Well, I'm still not entirely sure what _exactly _it is that we're dealing with, but England's here, helping me with the case," America replied. "He says that there's some kind of magical anomaly, and he's working on fixing it as we speak."

"Alright," the director said. "But that's not why you're calling, is it?"

"Sort of," America said. "This anomaly is… something that the FBI isn't equipped to deal with. I need the FBI off this case."

"Beg pardon?"

"When you called me a couple of days ago, there were already two guys investigating. They're not equipped to deal with what we've found; I need you – or someone else in the chain of command – to send them somewhere else."

"That would leave only you and England in the investigation," the director cautioned.

"I know," America said exasperatedly.

"…All right. As long as you two are sure you know what you're doing…"

**(-)**

England finished drafting his plans at nearly ten o'clock that night. Because the magic he'd found in that alley was such a complicated mess of spells, England knew he'd need something almost as complicated to fix it. On top of that, he would still need to send the younger America back to his time, although that would probably be the easy part.

_Who would have had enough knowledge of how magic works to even attempt a complex time travel spell?_ England wondered. _And why go back to the American Revolution?_

One possibility occurred to him almost immediately.

_That's absurd… I don't remember even attempting to travel back to the Revolution, much less completely _botching_ the attempt._

England shook his head vigorously.

_Maybe something happened, and erased my memories of it,_ England thought. _I do have spells for that as well._

Taking a quick glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table, England decided to put everything away and get some sleep. Hopefully, all his questions would be answered tomorrow. After everything was put away, England collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep within minutes.

**(-)**

The next morning came too quickly. England nearly destroyed the alarm clock when he attempted to turn the alarm off, then slowly dragged himself out of bed. He spent the next several minutes struggling to change his clothes, then headed downstairs to breakfast, where he found America already sitting at a table, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. England looked around, but the younger America was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is he?" England whispered as he sat down next to America.

America shrugged. "Still asleep would be my guess," he said.

Heaving a small, frustrated sigh, England refocused his attention on finding breakfast. Fortunately, the hotel had a free continental breakfast, and England quickly took advantage of that fact.

After breakfast, the younger America still had not come downstairs, so England and America went up to his room to find out what was going on. America knocked on the door, and, much to his relief, his younger self promptly answered. However, the younger nation appeared to have been in the middle of changing; he had his pants and shoes on, but his shirt was only buttoned halfway. His coat lay on the bed behind him.

"Are we leaving?" the younger America asked, continuing to button his shirt as he spoke.

"As soon as you're ready," England said.

The younger America nodded, and quickly finished buttoning his shirt. He went back to the bed and grabbed his coat, throwing it on over his shoulders, putting his arms through the sleeves as he walked out of the room. Double checking that he had everything, he then followed the other two nations down the hall.

"Where's my musket?" he asked.

"It's still in my car," America replied. "I'll give it to you before you go back, I promise."

They left the hotel, got into America's car, and from there, it was a relatively short and quiet drive back to the alley. When they got out, England led the younger America into the alley; but the older America wandered around outside for a bit. Just before going to join England, America checked his phone, but no one had tried to contact him.

_Good, it looks like Talley and Jameson got moved, just like I asked,_ America thought. He pocketed his phone and went back to the car, opening the trunk so he could retrieve his younger self's musket. With the weapon in hand, he went into the alley.

In the alley, England had already started preparing his spell. One of his spellbooks lay on the ground next to him; the satchel containing the rest of the books had been left in America's car, in the trunk. The incantation circles he had made yesterday had already been erased, and a newer one was being drawn in their place. While England drew the circle, the younger America stood off to the side, watching. America quietly went over to his younger self and handed the musket over.

England finished drawing the circle, and moved on to the next step. He picked up his spellbook and opened it. Right as he was about to begin chanting, the muffled battle sounds started.

"I guess now's as good a time as any for that to happen," England muttered. Ignoring the sounds, he went on with his spellcasting. _That shouldn't affect the spell any,_ he thought.

England chanted for a bit, and when he finished, the muffled battle noises abruptly stopped. However, the sudden silence was not nearly as disconcerting as what everyone was now seeing.

"Was your spell supposed to do that?" America asked.

Transparent images of buildings had suddenly appeared, and some of these images were superimposed on top of the actual buildings in the area. A close look at the images revealed that these buildings were very similar to the ones already in place; the only difference was that some of them appeared to be in slightly different spots. In addition to the buildings, America noticed transparent cars, driving right through the solid cars outside.

"England, what did you do?" America asked, growing increasingly apprehensive as he watched the bizarre scene around them.

England swore under his breath and started turning pages in his spellbook. He began chanting again.

Whatever England was doing to try to fix the problem appeared to be making it worse. Now, the transparent images were starting to appear more solid, and the solid, actual surroundings were fading; at first, turning transparent, then disappearing entirely. Within seconds, the three nations were now standing in a completely different alley, with different buildings around them than had been there a minute ago.

"What's going on?!" both Americas demanded.

England swore in frustration.

"This isn't what I was expecting," he growled. "However, I think we're making progress."

"Making progress?" America repeated incredulously. "How?!"

"Shut up and let me figure this out!" England snapped. He returned his attention to his spellbook, about to try another spell.

For the third time, England began chanting. As he chanted, the world began to spin, and everything turned into a dizzying blur. In fact, the three nations could only see each other in clear focus; everything else was spinning around them.

"England…" America said nervously.

Unfortunately for America, England had his eyes closed, and couldn't see what was going on. The British nation was too focused on casting the spell to notice someone calling his name, either. The spinning continued until England finished casting, abruptly stopping as soon as England spoke the last word of the spell. England opened his eyes and the world instantly came back into sharp focus.

It was the sounds of cannon and gunfire all around them that first clued them in as to where they were. It sounded exactly like that recording from yesterday.

The second clue was the two armies clashing right in front of them. One side wore bright red uniforms; the other was primarily blue. And lastly, these armies were fighting on a large, expansive field. The alley was gone.

"What… the hell?" England gasped.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I'm not really sure if I need to put anything here, but hey, it looks funny with no author's note.**

**I think we all know by now that I own nothing. Enjoy.**

* * *

England and America spent several seconds staring at the scene before them in shocked silence before either one thought of saying anything. America spoke first.

"Your spell was supposed to send only my younger self back, right?" he ventured nervously. "Not all three of us?"

At first, England made a few incoherent and frustrated attempts at a reply, but eventually managed an annoyed 'yes'. He took his gaze off the battle and glared at his open spellbook.

_What did I do wrong?_ England wondered.

While England tried to puzzle out what had happened, the younger America bolted off without warning. He ran to join his men on the battlefield, and within seconds, had disappeared into the ranks. However, England was so absorbed in his spellbook that he didn't notice.

America, on the other hand, watched his younger self run off, and continued to watch the battle with growing apprehension. He glanced around, taking note of where the troops of each side were positioned, and what they were doing. Memories came flooding back, and America began picturing in his head what he knew was going to happen on the battlefield.

_Any minute now, the British are going to break through those lines,_ America thought. _And my men are going to flee in this direction…_

"England, we need to move."

America looked over at England, who was still frowning at his book, and had his free hand resting on his chin. It looked like he hadn't heard what America said, so America tapped him on the shoulder. England looked up suddenly.

"What?" he demanded.

"We need to move," America repeated. He pointed at the British forces. "You remember what happened here…"

England took a moment to survey the battle; at first furrowing his brow thoughtfully, but then widening his eyes in realization. He slammed his book shut, turned, and ran.

No sooner had England done that, than the American forces directly ahead of them turned around and fled towards the two nations. British regulars were pursuing the Americans. The wing of militia that England had teleported himself and the Americas behind just minutes ago was collapsing rapidly, and America and England were about to get caught in the crossfire.

America sprinted after England, overtaking the older nation in a matter of seconds. Seizing England's free hand, America tried to lead the two of them away from the battle. Unfortunately, this turned out to be problematic; with the wing collapsing, men were not retreating in any particular direction, but were fleeing wherever they could in an attempt to escape the British bayonets. America took a fraction of a second to scan the battlefield again before dragging England in the direction he thought they should go. Tightening his grip on England's wrist, America headed away from the battle, and slightly to the left.

They managed to make roughly thirty feet before someone ran into them. A panicked militiaman, who hadn't been paying close enough attention to where he was going, accidentally collided with England. Both England and the militiaman fell to the ground, but quickly picked themselves back up. As soon as he was on his feet again, the militiaman continued to flee the battle, not saying a word to either England or America.

England picked himself up off the ground, and was about to continue fleeing as well, but it was too late. British troops had already made it this far behind the American line, and the two nations now found themselves face to face with England's own soldiers.

There was an awkward, half-second long pause as the British regulars looked over the two strangely dressed men in front of them, and the two men stared back, unsure of what to do.

Finally, one of the regulars must have made up his mind, because he pointed at America and England.

"Take them."

The rest of the handful of soldiers that had stopped now sprang into action. Half of them immediately ran forward and tackled England, while the rest went after America. Determined to stay on his feet this time, England kept a steady stance and threw off the soldiers' initial attempt to subdue him. Then, dropping his spellbook, he grabbed the nearest soldier and wrested the man's musket out of his grip.

Meanwhile, America did not bother to wait for the soldiers to reach him before making his attack. He ran forward and tackled one soldier, punching him squarely in the stomach and knocking the wind out of him. Just like England had done, America took advantage of the opportunity to steal the man's musket. The two nations quickly located each other again, and stood back to back, ready to repel a second attack.

_I'll bet America's going to have fun with this one once we get out of here,_ England thought. _The fact that I have to fight my own men…_

The man that had given the order to capture the nations stared dumbfounded at them for a split second, but quickly regained his composure and went on the attack again. Since America was closer to him, he charged at America, bayonet aimed at America's chest. America dodged the attack, then grabbed the barrel of his opponent's gun with his free hand and pulled, using his opponent's momentum to his advantage. The soldier tried to stop his own forward motion, but wound up overbalancing and falling on his face. America then whacked him over the head, rendering him unconscious.

The rest of the group of soldiers went after England. He dodged a couple of bayonets, then did the same thing America did. Within two minutes, three of their attackers lay on the ground, either wounded or unconscious. The remaining soldiers backed away from the nations, having apparently decided to leave them alone.

Without warning, one of the soldiers very quickly raised his musket, aiming for America. Seeing what was about to happen, America tried to leap out of the way of his shot, but a split second before he moved, he heard the sound of musket fire, and suddenly felt an excruciating pain in his upper back which caused him to drop to his knees. America looked at the person who had aimed at him, but there was no smoke coming out of the barrel; he wasn't the one who had fired the shot.

America bit down on his tongue to prevent himself from screaming in pain, and tried unsuccessfully to get back on his feet. Dropping to all fours, America tried to scan his surroundings to find whoever had shot him. Right next to him, England was also glancing around, swearing colorfully. The Englishman tore his jacket off and pressed it onto America's back in an effort to stop the bleeding.

"Keep going, men! After the rest of them!"

Both America and England looked up suddenly. That voice that had just spoken sounded exactly like England.

"I didn't say that…" England said, turning slightly to face the direction the voice had come from.

The soldiers that had attacked them obeyed the order and left in pursuit of the fleeing American militia. More British regulars showed up to take their place, however. And, there was one man among their number that looked very familiar. America and England both immediately recognized the messy blond hair and the unusually thick eyebrows.

Standing before them was England's past self.

This other England came to a halt just a few paces away from his older self. The two Englands stared at each other for a while, until the younger England noticed America still on all fours next to the older England. However, America was still facing the opposite direction, such that the younger England couldn't see his face.

The younger England didn't keep his attention on America for very long; he seemed to be more interested in the other England. He gave a curt nod to his men, who promptly stepped forward and grabbed the older England. England fought back briefly, but was overpowered by the number of men holding him down. He stopped resisting, and instead glared at his younger self.

"Take this man back to camp," the younger England commanded. "I'll have to interrogate him later."

"What?!" America said, suddenly trying once more to get on his feet. He attempted to turn around and see what was going on, but his wound wouldn't let him. Letting out a cry of pain, America fell face down in the grass, his legs having given out from under him during his attempt to stand.

England bit down hard on his lip. He briefly considered breaking free from his captors' grips, but decided against it. He was too far outnumbered; they'd just subdue him a second time. There was nothing he could do but watch.

England's younger self looked at the wound in America's back.

"Leave this one," he said. "With that wound, he won't live much longer."

With that, the younger England was about to turn around and rejoin his men, but was suddenly distracted by the sight of England's spellbook lying on the ground nearby America. He knelt down and picked it up, inspecting it closely, even flipping through the first few pages. When he closed it again, he shot his older self a curious look.

At this point, the soldiers holding England started to move, heading back to the British lines on the other side of the battlefield. The younger England remained where he was, still holding the spellbook. Meanwhile, America still lay face down in the grass, his body still but his mind racing; trying to think of what to do.

_Younger England must not realize who I am,_ America thought. _He and his men are taking England with them, but they're leaving me for dead. So, if I play along and pretend to be dead until they leave, maybe I can find the British camp later and rescue England… rather than get up now and be captured as well. _

"Such strange clothes…" the younger England muttered just loud enough for America to hear. "I've never seen anyone in these colonies wear anything of this sort."

The younger England knelt beside America. As soon as he noticed what the other nation was doing, America closed his eyes, pretending to be dead.

"Who is this poor fellow, anyway?" the younger England mused aloud. "He can't have been one of America's men… maybe he was a friend of that other man."

America heard movement, and was tempted to open one eye and see what the other England was doing, but he thought better of it. There was no telling what this England might do if he realized the man lying in front of him was still alive.

"So… who is that other man? He looks a lot like me, except for those outlandish clothes…"

There was a brief pause, and the only sound was that of the battle going on in the distance. Half a minute later, rapid footfalls could be heard; someone was running towards America and the younger England. The younger England stood up, as if to greet the new arrival.

"Sir! You're needed with General Cornwallis and his men," the new arrival panted, apparently exhausted from his run.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," the younger England replied.

Tucking the spellbook under one arm, the younger England immediately took off in the direction of the battle. The other man followed him, leaving America alone in the grass.

America waited several minutes before opening his eyes and turning his head in an attempt to see what was around him. From his current position, he could see almost nothing except for the bodies of soldiers – mostly American militia – lying all around him. Placing one arm in front of him, America tried propping himself up on that arm in order to get a better view of the battlefield. Because of his wound, that movement proved harder than it should have, and he nearly fell on his face a second time.

Swearing under his breath, and grimacing at the pain, America forced himself up. Slowly and cautiously, he then got back on all fours, then sat back on his heels. As he did this, England's jacket; which had been left on America's back when England was captured, fell off America's back. America picked it up, looking closely at the big bloodstain on it.

_There is nobody on this side of the battlefield; everyone's already fled,_ America thought, ignoring the jacket and turning his attention to his surroundings. _As long as I avoid the other side of the battlefield, I think I can get out of here undetected._

Taking a deep breath, America then slowly rose to his feet. He took several moments just standing still, making sure he was steady on his feet before trying to go anywhere. Once he was sure he could stay standing, America started walking, picking his way over and around the casualties until he was clear of the battlefield.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: I try to make my research reasonably thorough, but there's probably still inaccuracies in here. I don't think it's anything too egregious, fortunately. And I'll be taking some artistic/historical license with this fic anyway, so... yeah.**

**I own nothing.**

* * *

Several hours later, England found himself at the British camp. However, instead of being put with the other prisoners of war, England was sent directly to his younger self's tent, with an armed escort to prevent him from trying anything. As he entered the tent, the men escorting him stood right in front of the entrance while England stood closer to the center of the room.

Oddly enough, England's other self was not actually there when England first entered the tent. He stood and waited in uncomfortable silence while he waited for his other self to show up.

A few minutes later, and the tent flap opened. England's younger self was holding it open with one hand, and his other hand rested at his side. He appeared to be exchanging a few final words with General Cornwallis. Cornwallis said something, nodded to his country, and then left. The younger England then stepped inside his tent, making his way around the other soldiers to stand in front of his older self.

England's younger self rested his hands on the small table that stood in between himself and the older England. He dismissed his men, then narrowed his eyes at the older England, as if carefully scrutinizing him.

"What is your name?" the younger England demanded. Before England had a chance to reply, he added, "I have a feeling I already know, but I want to hear it from you."

_I'm so glad I can recognize myself,_ England mused sarcastically. _Well, America's already told _his_ younger self what happens… how much more damage will I do if do the same thing with my younger self?_

"My name is Arthur, sir," England said.

The younger England looked unimpressed. "What is your last name, Arthur?" he asked.

_If he already knows the answer, there's very little point in not telling him,_ England thought.

"Kirkland."

The younger England took his hands off the table and stood at his full height. He did not look the least bit shocked or surprised at England's answer. He did, however, look a little confused.

"You _are _me," he concluded. "But, how is that possible?"

_Come on, me, you've fiddled with enough black magic in your lifetime to know that bizarre things like this can happen,_ England thought.

The younger England furrowed his brow, examining his older self's appearance a second time.

"I've never seen clothes like what you're wearing, either," the younger England said. "I don't think they're foreign, yet they don't look like anything I've seen in my own country…"

He paused to think, staring intently at the floor.

"There's only one explanation I can think of," the younger England said, returning his attention to the older England. "But it involves magic…"

_Good God, my younger self is almost as smart as America,_ England thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"A spell going awry, perhaps?" the younger England asked.

England raised an eyebrow. "It's possible," he said.

His younger self let out an exasperated sigh and shot England a death glare.

"Your identity notwithstanding, you are my prisoner," the younger England warned. "And if you don't cooperate, then I will do whatever I deem necessary to _make_ you cooperate. Is that understood?"

Knowing all too well what that threat entailed, England nodded. At that, the younger England relaxed somewhat, and went to the back corner of the tent to retrieve something. A few seconds later, he returned to the table with England's spellbook in hand. Setting the book down, he then opened it to a random page and looked pointedly at England.

"This was the only book you had on you when my men captured you, so I think it's safe to assume that, whichever spell it was, it was out of this book," the younger England said. "So, tell me, of the spells contained in this book, which one was it?"

England took a deep breath as his mind raced. Showing his younger self the spell was tantamount to telling him that he had come from the future; but at the same time, he couldn't not show him. And, punishments and torture aside, the younger England would probably figure out which one it was anyway. Biting his lip, England reached for the book.

_Wait, I ended up using more than one spell to bring America and myself here,_ England realized. _I think I can get away with showing only one of them._

After thinking about it for a few seconds, England flipped several pages, eventually stopping on one of the spells he had used. His younger self leaned in close and looked at the spell, furrowing his brow as he did so. The tent was silent for over a minute before the younger England finished looking at the spellbook.

"I'm afraid that doesn't explain much," the younger England said. "Unless the spell went horribly wrong…"

England nodded quickly.

The younger England looked contemplative for a moment, but then shook his head vigorously.

"Tell me what happened," the younger England demanded. "Every detail."

"That teleportation spell," England began, gesturing at the spellbook. "If any of the sigils are incorrectly drawn, or the incantation is recited improperly, then a teleportation paradox can result. I think you already know this."

"Yes, I am aware of the risks of spells going wrong," the younger England said with a tinge of annoyance. "But you're not doing what I told you. Explain _what happened_."

"I don't know what there is to explain," England said. "One of us attempted to cast this spell, and something went wrong, and accidentally copied himself exactly, right down to the memories."

"I don't remember attempting to cast this spell," the younger England growled. "Obviously not _all_ of the memories remained intact."

England shook his head. "I never said the memories all remained intact; I said they were copied exactly," he said. "I don't remember this any more than you do. I only pointed out that spell in the spellbook because it's the only one that could possibly have resulted in this situation."

The younger England folded his arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Liar," he said. "You know exactly what happened."

England threw up his hands. "I swear, I'm telling the truth!" he lied. "I don't remember-"

"Don't think you can lie to your own self!" his younger self snapped.

At this point, he walked around the table and seized England by the collar. England's first instinct was to grab the other England's hand and try to force him to let go, but he immediately thought better of it. Instead, he just stood there and exchanged glares with his younger self.

"If you're really an exact copy of me; you have my memories and everything, then you should know what I'm willing and capable of," the younger England said, anger edging into his voice. "You probably have a good idea of what I'm thinking right now. With that in mind…"

He grabbed England's collar with both hands and tightened his grip. When England still said nothing, he lifted England about an inch or two off the ground. In a split second of panic, England reached for the younger England's hands and tried to force them open so he would let go.

The younger England's patience evaporated. In a lightning move, he hurled England over the table, and the elder nation landed in a crumpled heap, face down in the dirt. When England recovered, and was about to come to his feet, he found his younger self standing over him.

"The truth," the younger England demanded. "Now."

**(-)**

With some patience and effort, America managed to reach the British side of the battlefield undetected. By the time he got there, however, the battle was over; only the dead remained on the field. British cavalry had taken off in pursuit of the remainder of the American forces, and the rest of the British troops had left, most likely headed back to camp. America tried to follow their trail.

His pace was slowed by the still-healing wound in his back, and it wasn't long before America lost sight of the British troops altogether. However, America was reasonably certain of where they were headed, and continued walking in that direction.

_When I do find the British camp, how am I going to get in there, find England and get us out without being seen?_ America thought. _My clothes wouldn't exactly blend in very well._

Coming to a stop, America leaned against a tree to rest, and to inspect his wound. To his relief, the bleeding had stopped, and the wound was already starting to heal.

_Maybe I could steal a British uniform,_ America thought. He took his jacket off and dropped both it and England's jacket – which he had been carrying on his shoulder during his walk – on the ground. Both jackets were rather heavily stained with blood.

America took his shirt off as well to see how badly stained it was. It was even worse than the jacket; most of the upper back part of it was thoroughly saturated.

_Definitely going to have to steal a uniform…_

Putting his shirt and jacket back on for the time being, America slung England's jacket back over his shoulder and resumed walking.

**(-)**

After a long and tiresome day, Norway retired to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed. Grateful to finally have a chance to rest after going several days almost nonstop, the Nordic nation drifted off to sleep rather quickly. He did not stir until over an hour later.

Rousing himself slowly and gently, Norway eventually made it back to his feet. Feeling sufficiently rested for the time being, Norway headed to his study; he would return to bed later that evening for a full night of sleep.

Norway turned on the laptop that sat on the desk in the study, then took a seat at the desk. While he waited for the computer to finish booting up, Norway checked his phone for messages and missed calls. There turned out to be several.

There was one from Denmark, which Norway ignored. He'd already gone to Copenhagen to deal personally with the other Nordic nation, so that particular missed call was unimportant now. Another call was from Sweden; Norway decided to make a mental note of this one. He'd have to call Sweden back later and find out what he wanted because, for some reason, Sweden didn't like to leave messages.

Eventually, Norway found that he had a message from England.

_England?_ Norway wondered. _What does he want? Probably something to do with exports or trade…_

Both of his guesses would turn out to be wrong. Norway pushed the button to play back England's message.

"Norway, this is England. I'm calling to request your assistance; America and I are conducting an investigation of some possibly magical activity going on in one of his states, and your expertise in the magical field may prove useful. If you are willing and able to assist us, please call back as soon as you can."

Norway's eyebrows went up.

"A magical disturbance in the United States…?" he mumbled. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, thinking.

_This call is from a couple of days ago, and he hasn't tried to call back, so it doesn't seem like it's urgent_, Norway thought. _I can probably afford to wait until tomorrow to call him back… I'll call him after I talk to Sweden._

Norway put the phone away and turned his attention to the computer. There were a few administrative things he needed to do on the computer before calling it a day.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: This took way too long to write, I apologize. However, I hope it's worth the wait.**

**The following couple of chapters should be lots of fun, though. (I almost couldn't believe some of the stuff I found while doing my research...)**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

_My other self would be able to tell if I was lying, but I can't afford to tell him the truth either…_

England gingerly rose to his feet. To his surprise, his younger self actually allowed him to stand back up; England had half-expected his younger self to strike him back down, especially if he didn't immediately start talking.

Taking a moment to steady himself, England met the gaze of his younger self once again.

"I used that spell to bring myself here," England said. "I was not lying about that."

His younger self shook his head. "Even if that much is true," he said. "That's clearly not all of it. What are you still hiding from me?"

The younger England picked up the spellbook and began flipping through it. While he flipped pages, he watched the older England out of the corner of his eye. England, meanwhile, was still desperately trying to think of a good lie that his younger self would actually believe.

"Wait; what is this?" the younger England interjected before England could say anything.

England froze. _What did he find?_

England's younger self looked up from the book, narrowing his eyes at England. He set the book down on the table, then gestured for England to look at the page to which it was opened.

"This is a temporal gateway spell," the younger England noted. "It opens a gateway between two different times, allowing travel from one time to the other."

England stood in silence, gaze fixed on the open spellbook.

_Damn it, he knows now…_

"I knew you weren't telling me everything," the younger England continued. "You cast this as well, didn't you?"

England sighed. _There's no point in trying to hide it now._

"Yes."

The younger England took a step backward. However he felt about this revelation, he was doing a good job of not letting it show; his face was completely expressionless.

"You're me from the future," he concluded.

England slowly inclined his head to indicate yes.

There was a tense pause, which was suddenly interrupted when the younger England stepped forward again and grabbed the spellbook, slamming it shut and then returning it to the spot he had taken it from earlier. When he returned to the table, the younger England locked gazes with his older self once again. Something about his expression had changed; England thought he saw slight apprehension in his younger self's eyes.

"Judging by those strange clothes, I'd guess you're from the fairly distant future," the younger England said. "More than just a few decades, at least."

Another pause.

"America…" the younger England said. "Does he stay?"

England blinked. For a split second, the meaning of the question escaped him, but he realized quickly enough what his younger self was asking.

"I cannot tell you whether he does or doesn't," England said, fighting to keep his expression as neutral as possible. "You're not supposed to know the outcome before it happens."

The younger England looked disappointed, but didn't argue. He paced in front of the table for a minute, staring at the ground with a contemplative look on his face.

Halting rather suddenly, he turned to face England again. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"What?" the question caught England off guard.

"If you're from the future, why did you return to this time?" the younger England clarified. "What are you trying to change?"

England shook his head vigorously. "I'm not trying to change anything," he said. "I wasn't even trying to bring myself here in the first place."

The older England folded his arms and furrowed his brow. "Then what _were_ you trying to do?" he asked. "Are you trying to say you brought yourself here by accident?"

"That's more or less what happened, yes."

The younger England nodded, but he still looked confused. He looked like there was something he wanted to say, but he didn't speak right away. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the ground, thinking quietly to himself. In the meantime, England stood still, watching his younger self with curiosity.

When he was ready to speak, the younger England lifted his gaze rather suddenly, regarding England with a concerned frown.

"You didn't come here alone, did you?" he said. "That man that was with you on the battlefield… I don't think that was one of America's men; was he a friend of yours?"

England had to cover his mouth and fake a cough.

_How the hell did you not recognize him?_ He thought incredulously.

"Yes, he is a friend," England said.

The younger England's face fell. "I'm sorry," he said. "But, I don't think he survived that shot…"

Both Englands fell silent for a moment.

_ Only a nation can kill another nation; America would have survived a shot from a random British soldier_, England thought dismissively.

The discussion was abruptly interrupted when the tent flap unexpectedly opened. Barely a second later, General Cornwallis entered the tent.

"Sir Kirkland, may I speak with you for a moment?" he said.

Cornwallis had started to take a few steps further into the room, but stopped rather abruptly in his tracks, staring in confusion at the sight in front of him.

"Sir?" he asked, a tinge of concern in his voice.

The younger England cleared his throat and walked over to greet the general.

"Of course," he said. "I just need a moment; I was in the middle of interrogating one of the prisoners…"

Cornwallis nodded, but still looked confused. Nevertheless, he stepped back outside to wait. The younger England promptly spun around to face his older self.

"We'll continue this later," he said. He called in some of his men, and instructed them to put England back with the other prisoners of war. As they left with England in tow, the younger England then rejoined Cornwallis, and the two men headed for Cornwallis' tent.

**(-)**

At long last, America reached the British camp. Before going in, however, he stayed hidden in the trees nearby, formulating his plan. He knew he would need to steal a uniform, but the problem would be in actually getting his hands on one. So, he remained hidden, waiting for a soldier to come along.

Eventually, America's chance finally came; there was a redcoat on patrol, and was headed in America's direction, away from the entrance. America edged closer, still taking care to remain hidden until the last possible moment. Once the soldier came close enough, America quickly ran forward, seizing the man's collar with one hand, and covering the man's mouth with the other. As quickly as he could, America dragged the soldier with him back into the cover of the trees, then whacked him over the head, rendering him unconscious.

It took a few minutes for America to change clothes. Once he had the clothes on, he took his phone and wallet out of the pockets of his jeans and put them in one of the pouches of the stolen uniform. He also took his glasses off, placing them with the phone and wallet. When he was done, he looked at his own clothes, wondering what to do with them. He glanced at the barely clothed, unconscious British soldier, thinking.

_When he regains consciousness, he's going to run back to the British camp and alert everyone to my presence,_ America realized. _Unless I can prevent him…_

He glanced at his ruined clothes again. _Well, I probably won't be wearing these ever again anyway…_

America proceeded to rip his clothes into long strips. When he finished, he used the strips to tie up the unconscious soldier. Then, leaving the man leaning against a tree, America picked up the man's musket, turned around and headed into the British camp.

_Alright, now where is England being held…_

Despite the uniform giving him reasonable cover, America still tried to avoid other British soldiers, especially the officers. The last thing he wanted was someone roping him into doing some errand which could delay him, or even worse, blow his cover. It took longer, but America managed to navigate the camp without running into anyone; the only men he actually did encounter didn't try to talk to him.

What felt like hours later, America finally found the place where the prisoners of war were being held; a fairly small holding area near the back end of the camp. A quick perusal told America that England was in fact there, but there was a problem. The area was well guarded.

_How do I get past the guards without causing a scene?_ America thought.

With only a few seconds to think about it, America went with the first idea that occurred to him. He walked up to the guards, but was promptly stopped and asked why he was here.

"General Kirkland ordered me to fetch one of the prisoners," America said matter-of-factly.

The guard must have believed him, because he immediately stood aside to let America through. America allowed the guard barely enough time to let him through before walking right past him and walking over to England. Grabbing England somewhat roughly and lifting the other nation to his feet, America quickly led England out of the holding area.

England had recognized America by his voice before even seeing him come in and grab him, but was nonetheless a little surprised to see America confidently stride in, wearing a redcoat uniform. However, he thought it best to hide his incredulity – and slight amusement – until they were both safely out of the camp. Fortunately, this didn't take very long; America was walking quite fast.

After leaving the camp, America immediately took himself and England into the nearby woods, knowing that British soldiers would be looking for them shortly. He didn't stop until they were far enough away that they could no longer see the camp. When he was satisfied that they were a safe distance away, America let go of England's arm.

For several moments, England stared at America in bemused silence.

"How… the hell… did you do that?" England asked, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Do what?" America asked, looking down at his stolen uniform. "I stole a uniform so I could get in there without being caught. What's the big deal?"

"Never mind," England said, waving his hand as if to dismiss his previous question. "Where did you leave your clothes?"

"Uh," America began. "I'm… not going to get those back. For one thing, I wasn't going to wear them again anyway, given what happened to them…"

"Right." England paused for a second. "Did you at least take everything out of the pockets?"

"Yeah. Duh." America reached into his pouch and produced his wallet, phone and glasses. He put the glasses back on, but put the phone and wallet away again.

England nodded, then looked off into the distance, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"You can change out of that once we get back, I guess," he said. "Alright then. Just give me back my spellbook and I can get us out of here."

America's eyes went wide. "Your spellbook?" he asked.

England froze, staring at America in shock. There was an awkward pause.

"You forgot to grab my spellbook while you were there?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: There is an appearance by a very minor historical figure in this chapter. I'll explain a little bit about him at the end of the chapter.**

**Hetalia, it is not mine. Enjoy.**

* * *

England buried his face in the palm of his hand.

"You idiot…" he muttered.

"Hey, we can just go back to fetch it, right?" America said.

England shook his head. "By now, they probably already know that I'm missing," he said. "They're going to be sending search parties out to find me, as well as the 'traitor' that helped me escape."

America frowned. "So… what do we do?"

England rested a hand on his chin as he thought of an answer.

"I don't know how long it will take, but we could simply hide and wait it out," England said. "Eventually, they're likely to give up looking for us."

America raised his eyebrows. "That could take a while. You don't give up easily."

"I know; that's the problem…"

"Where are we going to hide then?"

England shrugged. "I don't know yet," he admitted. "But we should get moving, and try to find someplace before anyone finds us."

Nodding his understanding, America then began to resume walking, heading further away from the British camp. England was not far behind.

"How far do we need to go?" America asked as they walked.

"I don't know; away from Camden," England replied. "But not so far away that we can't catch up to them again. We do still need to get my spellbook back."

At that, America fell silent. He and England continued walking, but eventually stopped several hundred yards short of the field where the battle had been fought just hours earlier. America sat down, observing their surroundings. For several minutes, the two nations stood there, neither one saying a word.

Eventually, America broke the silence.

"Do you think your younger self is sending men after us yet?" he asked.

England looked off in the direction of the British camp.

"There's no way of knowing for certain," he replied. "Unless we actually see or hear them."

"So, what do we do now? Wait?"

"That's all we can do."

America made a noncommittal grunting noise and took his stolen coat off, laying it next to him in the grass. Meanwhile, England kept an eye out for anyone approaching. For nearly an hour, there was no activity, but eventually, England thought he heard voices off in the distance.

"America," England whispered. "Stay here. I'm going to see what that is."

America shrugged and said nothing. He stood up, but made no move to follow England. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed in the direction the voices were coming from, ready to run off and hide if necessary. Even after England disappeared from view, America didn't move. It was a tense wait.

Twenty minutes later, England finally returned, and he looked slightly apprehensive.

"As I suspected, there's a search party out looking for us," England said. "However, currently, they're headed in the wrong direction. We'll need to keep an eye out so we don't get caught."

"Do we need to move?" America asked.

"Not yet," England replied.

**(-)**

Over the course of the next several hours, America and England only had to move once in order to avoid detection by the British troops. While America was hiding in some underbrush, watching the British movements, he was relieved to hear their commander finally give up and order the men back to camp. As the British retreated, America ran back to where England was hiding to relay the news.

"The British search party is headed back to camp; they've given up on finding us," America said.

"Good," England said. "Now, we need to figure out how to get back into the camp and get my book back…"

America held up the stolen coat.

"Can't I just sneak back in while dressed like one of them?"

England bit his lip as he weighed his options. America had already been seen in that uniform by a number of the men, but what was the likelihood anyone would recognize him if they saw him again?

"I don't want to risk anyone recognizing you as the guy who took me out of there," England grumbled. "It might be possible for you to go back, but you'll need to keep your face hidden."

While England was still talking, America looked over to the west, where the sun was just starting to set. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he looked at England again.

"Hang on; it'll be dark in a couple of hours," America said. "That might actually be the perfect time to sneak in."

Staring contemplatively at the ground, England quickly thought it over. Also taking a moment to glance off to the west, England made up his mind.

"That's actually a good idea," he said. "A few more hours' wait shouldn't do any harm."

And so they waited where they were. Out of boredom, America took his phone out and toyed with it, even though he knew it wouldn't be able to do anything. England, on the other hand, sat down and rested quietly in the grass, staring impatiently off to the west.

At dusk, America put the phone away and put the coat back on properly, ready to head back to the British camp. As he was about to leave, he glanced curiously over at England.

"Are you staying here?" he asked.

England gestured at himself. "My clothes would give me away immediately if anyone saw me," he said. "You at least could pass as a regular soldier if no one's paying close enough attention. Besides, I don't want to risk both of us being caught."

America shrugged. "Whatever."

With that, America started to walk in the direction of the British camp. Unfortunately, he hadn't made more than ten paces before he abruptly stopped, distracted by the sound of something off in the distance. He paused and looked around, as if trying to identify where the noise was coming from. Unable to identify the location of the sound, America turned his attention to England, who was looking at him quizzically.

"Do you hear that?" America asked.

England took a few steps in America's direction. Both men stood silently, listening. While England could definitely hear something in the distance, it took him a second to realize what it was.

It was the sound of horses' hooves, and it was getting louder.

"That must be Tarleton and his men," England said. "They're riding back to rejoin Cornwallis."

Ignoring England, America was already on the move, looking for somewhere to hide. England was about to follow, but he stopped when a second glance in the direction of the approaching cavalry showed him that the leader was already in view. One glance at the uniform told England that whoever this was, it wasn't Tarleton. In fact, he wasn't wearing a British uniform at all. This person was an American soldier.

England swore under his breath and took off after America. Unfortunately, the American cavalryman had already seen England, and pursued him. Within seconds, he overtook both England and America. As the two nations came to a halt, knowing they'd been caught, more American cavalry rode up and surrounded them.

The leader stared at America, and, at first, there was a flicker of recognition in the man's expression before it quickly turned into a confused frown. He then turned his attention to England, but there was no recognition this time; just a confused look, likely due to England's 'unusual' clothing.

"Major Davie, sir?" one of the men asked.

"Where is Cornwallis' army?" the major said, turning to face the soldier who had spoken up.

"A little less than a mile to the east," the soldier replied.

The American officer paused to look off in that direction, almost as if expecting to see British troops. He quickly returned his attention to England and America, however.

"We can't stay here," the officer said. Turning to his men, he added, "Take these two with us."

"Major, your orders were to recover supply wagons…" one of the men quietly protested. "We can't take prisoners with us. What would we do with them?"

Davie silenced the other man with a glare.

"These men could be British scouts, or spies," he said. "We can't have them going back to Cornwallis and telling him where we are and what we're doing. Now, take these men back north of here, away from the British."

As he was about to turn his horse around and begin leading his men back, the major gave one last curious glance at America. He furrowed his brow briefly, but quickly gave up on whatever exercise he was attempting and went back to the task at hand. Within minutes, America and England were reluctantly headed north, escorted by the American cavalry.

_Damn it,_ England thought. _We need to escape these men and get back to the British camp…_

He already knew that an escape attempt would be pointless; he was on foot, and would be easily caught again. Frustrated, he immediately abandoned any escape ideas, bit his lip and allowed himself and America to be led. Annoying as it was, he would have to wait until a more opportune time to slip away from the Americans.

While England was left to his thoughts, America, on the other hand, had been pulled to the front, to walk alongside Major Davie– on Davie's own order. Apparently, the major wanted a word with him.

"What is your name?" he asked as soon as he saw America next to him. "You look like someone I've met before."

America shot a quizzical glance at the officer. _I don't think this is one of the men from this time that knew me very well,_ America thought. _But he looks vaguely familiar… I probably only met this guy once or twice…_

"Jones," America blurted, hoping this man would be satisfied with just a last name. Why did he care about the name of a random 'British' prisoner anyway?

The major arched an eyebrow. Again, there was a brief flicker of what seemed to be recognition in his eyes, but it quickly vanished.

"Really?" he said. There was an awkward pause as he looked away for a moment, thinking.

"The man I met was also named Jones," he continued. "You look a lot like him…"

_I'm wearing a British uniform; he's probably going to think I'm a brother or something,_ America told himself. _There's no way he could think it's actually me…_

Fortunately for America, Davie appeared to be done asking questions for the moment. However, he still had his brow furrowed; he looked like he was deep in thought. Whatever he was thinking, he was keeping it to himself for the time being. But America had the feeling this conversation wasn't over.

Davie did not speak to either America or England again until his company drew rein. He pulled one of his men aside, whispered some instructions in his ear, and then the subordinate left, continuing to head north while Davie and his men rested for the night. A handful of men were also selected to keep watch over America and England; or, 'the prisoners', as they had been called. Everyone else slept.

**(-)**

Everyone was up early the next morning, moving quickly to eat a meager breakfast, and then gather their things, getting ready to go on the move again. Even America and England were given morsels of bread.

During the bustle of everyone packing up, the messenger that had left the night before returned. Not long after he appeared, a small handful of men could be seen following him, on foot. At the head of this small group of new arrivals was America's younger self. He and his men followed the messenger, eventually coming to a halt and speaking with Davie. From his spot on the grass some twenty yards away, America watched the scene with mild confusion and bemusement.

_Why is my younger self here? _America wondered. _I thought he retreated with everyone else; he should be a lot further north of here._

At this point, Davie's men were ready to move out, but their commander gave no order to do so. Instead, he and the younger America finished their conversation, and walked over to where America and England were sitting. As soon as he saw his older self, the younger America shot America a look of utter bewilderment.

"Why are you two still here?" the younger America blurted. Pointing at America, he added, "And why are you wearing a British uniform now?"

Davie looked curiously at the younger America. "Do you know these men?" he asked, gesturing at England and America.

The younger America ran a hand through his hair. "After a fashion…" he said.

Everyone stared at each other in varying degrees of confusion for a minute. The younger America moved first, waving a hand to dismiss Davie, who promptly returned to his men. However, he still did not give any orders. He appeared to be waiting on the younger America. The younger America knelt in front of America, then dropped his voice to a whisper as he spoke.

"Why haven't you two returned to your time yet?" he asked. "I thought England had cast a spell after I left that should have taken you two back…"

"My spell teleported us right behind your militia right as the British tore through their ranks," England said. "We got caught in the fight."

"So you could have left the field, and cast the spell afterward," the younger America countered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"That was the plan," England said, annoyance edging into his voice. "But I lost my book during the battle. My younger self has it."

The younger America narrowed his eyes. "How do you know he has it?"

"Because I saw him take it," England replied tersely. "We need to get it back."

"That's partly why I'm wearing this," America cut in, gesturing at his stolen uniform. "If I could sneak into the camp disguised as one of them, I could find the book, grab it, and leave."

"England would recognize you," the younger America said. "If he saw you…"

"So I have to avoid England," America said simply, giving a nonchalant shrug. Next to him, England rolled his eyes.

"How?" the younger America asked incredulously. "England's not going to leave something like that unguarded. He might even be keeping it on his person."

America looked unimpressed. "That's ridiculous," he said. "Why would he keep it on his person? I don't think he's doing that; it's probably just hidden in his tent somewhere."

"And you're going to find it without being caught?" the younger America said with a tinge of apprehension.

America nodded. "I'm gonna have to."

His younger self stood back and folded his arms. He sighed, then bit his lip, staring apprehensively at his older self.

* * *

**Ending note: The 'Davie' in this chapter is William Richardson Davie, a cavalry officer who fought in the American Revolution. He narrowly missed the Battle of Camden, and was the only unbroken force in between the British and the retreating Americans for a while. He played a key role in some other battles after Camden (Charlotte and Kings Mountain) and was later made commissary-general by General Nathanael Greene.**

**He's probably unrelated to another 'Davie' that some of us Hetalians might know...**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: I apologize for this being so late. Things have been a little hectic on my end; there were tests and a concert to prepare for.**

**I own nothing except the actual fanfic.**

* * *

The younger America slipped off to have a word with Davie. It was unclear whether England and America were clear to go yet, so they lingered, waiting for the younger America to return. Presently, the younger America did return, with Davie at his side.

"We may be able to help you get your book back," the younger America said. "However, I can't make any promises as to how soon. We could try for as early as tonight, but it will be dangerous."

"It would be dangerous regardless of when we tried," England pointed out dryly. "But I do greatly appreciate your help."

The younger America did not respond to England's comment, but rather stared at him for a few seconds with an odd expression on his face. The young nation looked visibly nervous around England still, and England could also see conflicting emotions in the young America's eyes. It was like the boy wanted to trust this older England, but given the current circumstances, it was proving difficult. The younger America shot a brief glance at his older self, as if silently pleading for his assistance, but the older nation didn't appear to be paying much attention.

England cleared his throat and stood up, quickly breaking the silence before it became too awkward. Assuming they were ready to go, America stood up as well.

"What is the plan?" England said. "I don't want to move out until we have one. A good one," he added, flashing an accusatory glare at America.

"We'll have to keep a close eye on the British before anyone even attempts to go into their camp," Davie said. "If necessary, my men can make a small distraction right before you go in."

"I'm afraid that's the easy part," England cut in. "It's actually finding the book that will be the most dangerous part."

Davie nodded thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I can't help you there," he said.

"I know…" England muttered.

The younger America cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention to him.

"When you said we need to be keeping a close eye on the British," he said, looking pointedly at Davie. "Will your men be doing that?"

Davie nodded.

"And they'll let us know when to enter the British camp?" the younger America asked.

"They will let _him_ know," England cut in, gesturing at America. "He's the only one that will actually be going into the camp."

There was a brief pause in the conversation. Davie was the one that broke the silence.

"At the moment, we're too far away from the British," he said. "We should move closer if we're even going to consider attempting this plan."

"Yes, but what are we going to do once we are close enough?" England said.

"We watch the British movements, and wait for the best opportunity for your friend to sneak inside," Davie replied. "After that, it's entirely up to him."

"How will we do that?" America asked. "Have a scout send me a signal or something?"

Another pause.

"That is exactly what we will do," Davie said finally.

Everyone looked around, exchanging glances with each other. From the sound of it, they had their plan. All that was left to do was to move out.

"I'll relay this to my men," Davie said. "We move out in half an hour."

**(-)**

It did not take long to find the British again. England, America, and America's younger self went slightly ahead of the American cavalry, eventually finding a spot to hide within a few hundred yards of the camp. One American scout rode ahead of them, quickly vanishing from the nations' view in their hiding place.

After a seemingly interminable wait, the scout finally reappeared, signaling to America that it was time to go. America quickly rose to his feet and walked quickly in the direction of the British camp; England and the younger America stayed where they were. Just as quickly as he had appeared, the scout vanished back into the nearby woods, leaving America alone.

Much like the last time, America took care to avoid the other soldiers as much as possible, despite the fact that he was wearing a British uniform. He slipped past the guards that were on patrol, and walked through the camp, searching for England's tent whilst trying to look as inconspicuous as he could. No one else was giving America so much as a second glance, so America took this as a good sign.

_England's tent is probably close to Cornwallis',_ America thought. _But, I don't know where Cornwallis' tent is either…_

Just a few dozen feet ahead of him, America saw the younger England step out of a tent. He had a number of items tucked under his arm, but from this distance, America couldn't tell what all of it was. All he could see from this distance and angle was a musket, a burlap sack, and some rolled up papers. America stopped in his tracks and turned so that the younger England wouldn't be able to see his face if he happened to turn in America's direction. Out of the corner of his eye, America noticed the younger England had completely ignored him, and had gone off to another section of the camp.

Waiting cautiously in case someone else was about to follow England out of the tent, America then slowly approached the tent. A brief, rapid scan of his surroundings told him no one was looking, so he took the opportunity to slip into the tent. Much to his relief, the tent was empty. Breathing a small sigh of relief, America quickly set to work looking for England's spellbook.

First, he checked the table in the center of the tent, moving everything around in case the book had been hidden under a map or something. When that turned up nothing, America then sorted through the boxes that were stacked in the back corner, but the spellbook was not there either.

Cursing under his breath, America tried to put the contents of the boxes back the way they were. He looked around the tent one last time, but the spellbook was nowhere to be seen.

_Maybe this isn't actually England's tent,_ America told himself. _I'm just looking in the wrong place is all._

America left the tent and resumed walking through the camp, keeping a sharp eye out for either England or General Cornwallis. On a hunch, America headed in the direction he remembered England to have gone when the British nation had left the tent. It didn't take long for America to finally come across a tent that was larger than the rest.

_This is probably England's tent,_ America thought. _The spellbook's got to be in there, but I don't think I can just barge in…_

America made as if to walk past the tent, but stayed close enough that he would be able to see if anyone went in or out of the tent entrance. He edged closer to the tent wall in an attempt to be able to hear what was going on inside. This proved successful; he could hear England's voice, but it was rather faint due to being muffled by the tent wall. It sounded like he was discussing strategy; most likely with General Cornwallis.

While he waited, America noticed a handful of British soldiers headed in his direction. To avoid suspicion, America resumed walking, pretending to be heading somewhere else. After the soldiers disappeared from view, America returned to his original spot.

Several minutes later, both Cornwallis and England emerged from the tent. America noticed that England was no longer carrying that bundle of items; all he had on him was a fairly large pouch. He waited long enough for both men to get a considerable distance away from the tent, then he went inside.

In this tent, America did the same as he did in the previous one; sorting through the items on the table, then checking everything else that was on the floor. He tried to be quick; he had no idea when either England or Cornwallis would return. Unfortunately, his search of this tent was proving just as fruitless as the previous search.

He was nearly done with his search; the only thing America had not yet checked was a large chest. It had a lock on it, but that could be easily broken. However, as he reached for the chest, America suddenly heard voices and approaching footsteps.

"Damn it," America muttered. He quickly ducked out of the tent and began walking away, hoping no one had seen him.

That immediately proved to be a futile exercise.

Two lower ranking officers had happened to be passing by the tent, engaged in idle conversation as they walked. They were still twenty paces away from the tent when America stepped out.

For a split second, America was unsure of what to do. He managed to force himself to not panic and flee, but instead walked away calmly. Much to his surprise, the officers didn't say anything. For some reason, they must not have thought anything wrong with a random soldier being in the general's tent. America walked very slowly, waiting until the officers were out of sight, then doubled back and went right back inside the tent, immediately grabbing the chest again.

_It had better be in here,_ America thought.

He checked the tent for the key, but couldn't find it. Reluctantly, America broke the lock apart with his bare hands, then opened the chest and sifted through the contents.

There were a few rolled up maps, as well as a number of papers tied together with some string. These turned out to be various plans and strategies that England and his generals had drawn up. Underneath the papers were some books. America hurriedly seized all of the books and spread them on the floor, checking the cover and contents to see if any of these were the book he was looking for.

Once again, America was faced with disappointment.

He checked the chest again, trying to see if there were any books he had somehow missed, but there were no books left inside. Frustrated, America shoved the contents back inside the chest and slammed it shut, then got back on his feet. His frustration was further compounded by the sounds of someone approaching the tent again.

_Wait a minute, if this is like last time, they won't really care that I was in here,_ America told himself. Calmly, he stepped out of the tent.

Both America and the person that had been approaching the tent froze when they saw each other. America bit his lip, trying not to let out the string of expletives that occurred to him when he saw who was headed in his direction.

It was the younger England.

Both nations stood there for quite a while, staring at each other in dumbfounded silence. America's first instinct was to run, but he already knew that would be futile; he was more or less completely surrounded. So, he stayed put, frantically thinking of a way to talk himself out of the situation.

"Alfred?" the younger England asked weakly, finally breaking the awkward silence.

"Uhhh," was all America could manage. He took a few steps backward.

The younger England began to walk toward America.

"What are you doing here?" the younger England asked. "And why are you wearing that?"

America backed up one more step and gave up. The younger England came to a halt as well.

"Have you finally come to your senses, is that why you're here?" the younger England asked, but the frown on his face seemed to indicate that he didn't believe his own guess. He muttered something to himself, but America couldn't make it out.

"Um, no, I just…" America began, but trailed off. _Do I just tell him? Or can I lie my way out of this?_

"Where did you get that uniform, anyway?" the younger England asked, now taking on an accusatory tone. "You probably stole it from one of my men, didn't you…"

America said nothing.

"You are the second person that has managed to do that," the younger England continued. "Yesterday, someone spirited away one of the prisoners of war out of this camp, disguised in British uniform."

The younger England looked America directly in the eye. The accusation was clear even before the British nation said anything.

"You were involved in that as well, weren't you?" he said.

America gave a small shrug. _Might as well…_

"Yeah," he admitted.

Anger flashed brightly in the younger England's eyes.

"This might be your most brazen move yet, boy," he growled. "So, the last five years has taught you nothing then."

"What do you mean – never mind," America started. _I don't like where this conversation is going; I need to get out of here. The spellbook's gonna have to wait._

America threw all caution to the wind and turned around, breaking into a sprint. Behind him, he heard the younger England curse and take off in pursuit.


End file.
